


A House Without Order

by Konigsberg



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: Awkward Flirting, Bigotry & Prejudice, Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, Case Fic, Coming Out, Dating, Friends to Lovers, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Moral Dilemmas, Romance, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-09
Updated: 2018-03-02
Packaged: 2018-12-20 13:24:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 52,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11921814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Konigsberg/pseuds/Konigsberg
Summary: “Get your own house in order first.”No matter how stubbornly Sonny attempts to forget the words, they keep coming back to him in quiet moments such as these. Rolling onto his side fully, he presses himself against Rafael and breathes in the scent of cheap hotel soap on his skin. In his sleep, Rafael shifts, nose brushing Sonny’s hair and breath warm against his skin.“Your thoughts are too loud,” he mutters before pressing a kiss to Sonny’s forehead. “Stop it, or you’ll be sleeping alone.” He softens the threat with yet another kiss, this one lingering.Sonny settles, reassured that his supposed disorder is, in reality, perfectly ordered.A case dredges up issues Carisi has ignored but now must deal with, bringing him and Barba closer than he thought possible in the process.





	1. Nothing so Black and White

**Author's Note:**

> Please be aware that there are many mentions of assault as this story focuses on a case of rape. I didn't tag it as it's not an event actually portrayed in this work, and I don't feel that the mentions throughout the story are anything worse than canon level, but it will be described by the victim at some point. I just wanted to provide a warning now. The victim is also underage.
> 
> If you have any questions, feel free to contact me here or on tumblr.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Don’t make this weird,” he requests, shaking his head a little. “I’m black, you’re white. It is what it is.”
> 
> Carisi nods, sharp.
> 
> Fin stifles a laugh. Carisi’s pretty sure it’s at his expense, but he can’t really blame him in this moment.

Justicia, cosa muy buena; pero no en mi casa, en la ajena.

Cuban Proverb

_August 2nd_

Carisi slips back in from the break room, cheap coffee in hand, fully intending to get this damn desk work done so he can go home and sleep, or at least go to Amanda’s. It’s been a rough week, and without fail Rollins always invites him to her place after particularly dangerous cases, as if she needs the reassurance of his presence. Or maybe she doesn’t trust him to take care of himself when he’s not in her sight.

He can’t turn her down, even after a shift spent bent over a pile of statements. Sleep sounds good, but dozing on Amanda’s couch while Jesse plays with his fingers and tie and Kim tells him about Amanda when she was little sounds even better.

The squad room is particularly chaotic today, which sure as hell isn’t conducive to finishing the sea of paperwork he’s dealing with. He’s swamped after handling a domestic in Hell’s Kitchen. Unfortunately, it involved guns being drawn, the son of a retired judge, and a scandal or two so the paperwork is extensive. There’s never room for mistakes, but Benson, Barba, and 1PP have all made it crystal clear that it’s perfection or nothing in this case; the pressure is on to get every bit just right.

A couple of female officers and the captain are doing their best to calm a distraught woman lashing out at any man who nears her, and a few others are holding back a man and woman yelling at each other. Guilt coils in his stomach as the man shoves officer Jacobs back until he’s stumbling over himself to stay upright. His success incites the man further.

Affronted yet excited, the woman detective Wen is attempting to restrain practically cheers. “That’s assault on an officer! You’re goin’ to jail! Goin’ to jail! Do not pass go!”

Carisi can’t help the choked laugh that escapes him in response, not only at her but the exacerbated expressions on nearly all of the cops’ and detectives’ faces in the room. It’s a line they hear too often, and would rather not hear ever again.

The man, broad in the shoulders and face going red as he clenches his jaw, looks about like a balloon brought to the brink of popping. He has nearly half a foot on officer Jacobs, and detective Sokoll is a big man but not that big.

While his case is weighing on Carisi something fierce, he knows a few more hands are needed around the precinct. It’s as if Sokoll can read his thoughts, waving him off as soon as he makes to come near.

“Don’t you have a lawyer to appease, Carisi?” he calls, teasing even as he wrangles the man’s arms behind his back. No one envies the desk work that follows such an event, and the relief that comes after a gun is involved in an incident with no casualties manifests in the form of incessant joshing for a day or two.

The man jerks in Sokoll’s hold, kneeing a desk, and a cup full of pens falls off the edge. The resulting sound is sharp, and pens skatter along with clunky shards of ceramic. Carisi winces. Another detective jumps, cursing, and goes to get something or someone to clean it while Fin kneels to pick up what he can.

Usually, Carisi doesn’t mind the teasing, but his nerves are frayed and his chest tightens with what he can only pin down as some vague anxiety, perhaps due to the fact this teasing isn’t about paperwork, it’s about Barba.

Since he’s stuck around, there’s been a reasonable amount of joking in regards to his schooling, and his interest in law in general. He knows it doesn’t help that he prattles on about legality and so on during cases. He doesn’t mind it, for the most part, but with Barba it’s different.

Most everything slides right off Sonny’s back like water on a duck’s feathers. That’s an image he sometimes conjures up after feeding the ducks with Amanda, Kim, and the baby so many times. And each of those times, Kim has rolled back on her heels, grinned, and said, “Just like Sonny, huh? Slides right off ‘im!” It always earns a laugh from Amanda and she’ll easily agree, sometimes adding on a story or two about this and that. It’s always things which take Sonny by surprise.

He didn’t expect either of them to pay such close attention to him they would notice a part of him overall forgotten, by both himself and others. Of course he knows he lets things go with ease and always has, he’s self aware enough for that, but standing with the sisters as they smiled all bright and easy as if sharing a secret it struck him how they view him.

He knows most look at him and see a pushover or someone oblivious, and he doesn’t mind, but he’s not had someone compliment it. When Kim had first said what she did, Sonny had faced her, expecting the words to be followed by a mean laugh or a joking twist to her lips despite knowing her well enough by then to expect anything but. Kim had gazed right back at him, smile sweet as could be and gaze warm. Confused, he’d turned to Amanda, but her expression was even fonder than her sister’s.

He didn’t know how to respond, and yet his chest had grown warm and tight, his lips pulling into a smile before it all even sunk in. He felt ridiculously grateful for them both in that moment, and every time he’s thought of it since.

He does let things go, sometimes with more ease, eagerness, or understanding than he should. But the teasing about Barba rubs him wrong.

The team bringing it up occasionally is alright, nothing he can’t handle, but he hates to have those he’s not as close to pick at it. It’s a step too far, incessantly insinuating he’s on Barba’s leash or not here for the right reasons. They see him as someone transitioning from Homicide to SVU for access to something with higher pay and more acclaim. Maybe it hits a nerve because they’re so close yet far from the truth: He wants Barba to like him, to think highly of him, out of respect for the man himself and nothing more. It’s not because he’s expecting Barba to give him a push in his possible career as a lawyer.

It’s ignorant and foolish, and he knows it, but he’s not the type to ignore how he feels for any reason.

Originally, it was different, Barba existing as this distant being of legend who had the wit and balls to convince a perp to choke him in front of a damn judge and jury. Carisi’s professors crowed about it, brought in articles from the incident they had taken the time to cut out.

“I used to know him,” one said, lips quirked and eyes dark behind her glasses. She didn’t bother explaining where she met him, and Carisi didn’t ask her or Barba about it; it made him want to physically step back even considering it, like it was wrong to, like he’d be crossing a line unless the information was offered. “He was a real bastard, but that’s what you have to be in a job like this. I suppose you already know that.”

He wanted to tell her he works with Barba, but for some reason he found he never had the nerve.

The previous cops and lawyers he worked with were a lot different than the ones in any SVU he has been in, and every lawyer he interacted with was a far cry from Barba in his colorful ties and with his silver tongue. They would drink the dregs of their coffee in tight conference rooms while fighting over acquittals, too-cheap bail for killers, messy and questionable arraignments, and so on and so forth. Sometimes other lawyers would come up, too.

Usually, their bitching and gossiping would be over defense attorneys, ones that had proven to be particularly nasty or had wounded the pride of their prosecutors or made a fool of cops on the stand. Even they heard of Barba, and even they sung his praises and hissed his name like they were speaking of some wicked man so enviable they all couldn’t help but love and hate him in equal measure.

“I met him once,” one said, his lips curling with distaste, but it could have been from the coffee. “Sure has a fucking mouth on him.”

“Don’t all lawyers?” a detective had argued, and they all laughed - the cops at least.

Now, after meeting the man (the myth, the legend) any blind admiration has turned to an appreciation for Barba as just that: a man. His flaws recognized rather than going unseen, or exaggerated. Sonny’s not sure he has the right to call Barba a friend, but that hasn’t stopped him before, so he’ll stick to the delusion until it’s either proven right or wrong. He doesn’t want it to be broken, he supposes, by considering the likelihood for himself.

The pause has gone on too long for him to respond in any way that won’t prove awkward and Jacobs is back to assisting with the arrest, snapping the cuffs on between Sokoll and the man’s back when holding his arms there proves to be as much as Sokoll can do on his own.

Carisi observes, far more tired than he was moments ago. He takes a large gulp of coffee and rubs the wrinkles from his forehead. If he could do this work anywhere else, just for today, he’d get the rest he’s been desperate for later.

He needs to clear his mind of unnecessary things and get away from the noise and clutch of people, all as tired and stressed as he is. It’s like their own struggles are pressing in on him, as they so often do, and he feels ancient because of it.

Preparing to go back to work, he wavers once more when he spots a woman hesitating in the doorway. In the disorder, she sticks out all the more. Her hair is messy, as if she’s been combing her fingers through it, ruining however she had it fixed, and there’s makeup smeared under her eyes. Otherwise, she’s perfect as can be, sharp all over from the points of her heels to the jut of her chin.

It's an expression he associates with the lawyers he’s met, like Rita Calhoun and Meredith Holzman. He can easily picture her as a lawyer or a politician or a wife of one or the other. It could be that he has well-dressed lawyers on the brain.

She’s in her forties, maybe late thirties. She tugs at her sleeves obsessively and lists slightly to the side as if struggling to stay on her feet, dizzy or lost or both. Her purse is heavy, and she shoulders it awkwardly before cradling it close. She’s hiding so many things he’s not sure what to focus on.

Following her gaze he turns as subtly as he can. At first he’s not sure what exactly she’s looking at (everyone? The office in general? Fin?). He glances back at her, and the way she’s trying to cover both her throat and her arms, before looking the same way her gaze is directed. She’s focused on Fin, despite all of the other things that should be fighting for her right now.

“Huh,” he says. The cop passing him to get to the coffee pauses, glances around the room. She decides coffee is more important than dealing with Carisi’s muttering, or at least that’s what Carisi assumes because she heads into the room with renewed determination.

Setting his mug on his desk as he passes, Carisi tries to appear approachable before approaching _her_ , the perfect, sharp woman standing in the doorway. Lopsided smile, soft shoulders, a bit of a slouch but not so much he looks spineless - he goes the whole nine yards to appeal to her; he’s getting a little better at this, but he doesn’t let himself think about it too much.

“Don’t get too big for your boots,” Barba once said, lips quirked in a way that told him he wasn’t truly fussing at him. He was feeling more playful than usual after nailing a guy on the stand with information Carisi provided at the last moment.

He needs to stop thinking about Barba.

The woman has big, wet eyes and she turns them on him; something about her sharpness softens upon spotting him. It makes his own shoulders loosen along with the clench of his jaw he hadn’t even noticed.

“Hey there,” he says, affable as can be, and holds out a hand.

This isn’t how they usually do it, but the Celtic symbol (the one that looks sort of like a flower to Carisi but his sisters insist represents the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost) on her necklace she’s been trying to cover tells him a great deal and he knows when a person has something illegal on them. Not to mention something about her reeks of Staten Island despite the getup, and if anyone knows Staten it’s him.

Now that he’s close enough, he can tell her makeup isn’t running due to tears, and her hair hasn’t been pulled by any hands other than her own. As he thinks it, she rakes her fingers through it like she wants to hurt herself; her hand is shaking, but he can’t tell if it’s all nerves or that she’s needing a fix.

“Detective-” He pauses, considering what this pale, pale woman might say to his Italian name, before continuing, “Y’know what, just call me Sonny. How can I help you?”

Without a second of hesitation, she’s pressing her hand into his and shaking it firmly; reminds him of his sister about shaking the arms off of men when she’s nervous of them. She has a wedding band on, a simple gold one, and her nails are sharp as hell. “Grace Seymour.” Her jaw goes hard along with her eyes, and for a minute he worries she’s going to crush his hand. “You a Staten boy?” She squints at him, judging his cheap tie more likely than not.

For a minute, he pictures himself in the purple, satiny one Barba favors and almost laughs right then and there. It’s not one of his more professional moments. It’s not one of his more professional days.

The more he’s telling himself to stop thinking about Barba, the more he is.

He clears his throat. “Yeah. You too?”

“Can’t say I caught the accent as bad as you, though.” She grins at him, and it’s a nice grin, makes her appear a little less spotless. She’s trying too hard.

Laughing, he takes a step back, tilting his head towards his desk. “Wanna join me at my desk or would you rather go somewhere quieter?”

Her eyes flicker to Fin yet again. Cataloguing his face, his hands, and once done she moves on to officer Malgrin with his wild curls and her focus draws his own to Malgrin’s skin - to its tone that’s not all that dark but still darker than hers. He squeezes her hand, though it makes his stomach unsettled now that his thoughts are confirmed. Hoping to get her into another room before anyone else notices what now appears painfully obvious, at least to him, he doesn’t let go.

He’s so shaken by this, his stomach twisting with a discomfort he can’t name, that he almost stumbles into Sokoll and the man he’s leading past, now in cuffs. Sokoll grins brightly despite it all. His face is flushed and his clothes ruffled. In the scuffle, the small Star of David that he wears has slipped from his collar, the pendant now caught around a button on his shirt. The hand in Sonny’s own tightens its grip, and Carisi glances back to find that Seymour has taken to touching the pendant at her own throat, eyes on Sokoll’s.

“Good work, detective,” Carisi rasps, nodding to him. He almost winces, questioning if he should have said that in front of this woman, but his chest clenches, his heart unsettled by even considering ignoring a fellow detective over this.

Sokoll’s grin grows. “Ma’am,” he adds, inclining his head in Seymour’s direction. Her grip on Carisi’s hand eases. She smiles back, and it’s easy as can be.

He’s stricken by how easily she’s hidden her apparent distaste.

“Alright,” Carisi says, just for something _to_ say because now silence between them - silence that’s not even silence with the woman still crying, and the other still yelling and the man Sokoll arrested grunting and huffing like a fucking animal - is stifling. “I’m real sorry about all of this. Today is-is pretty wild.”

“Is it always like this?” She looks at him with pity that Carisi almost smiles at. “So dangerous?”

“Eh, some days are worse than others around here.”

Seymour stays close. He keeps his eyes off her, fearful he’s going to see something he can’t handle upon her being or in her eyes, and finds Amanda’s gaze. She’s taken to watching them from where she stands bent over her own desk, fingers still against the keyboard of her computer, without Carisi noticing. She smiles softly and goes back to her work like she wasn’t honed in on them. He can’t help but prickle despite knowing it doesn’t mean anything. Something must be wrong with him today.

Seymour’s grip tightens on his hand yet again; he forgot they were still touching. They need to stop, but it would feel strange pulling away now.

Her face darkens, throat shifting as she swallows, and he wishes his eyes weren’t drawn there to the movement and the softness of her skin. “It’s-” She shrugs helplessly, and it’s so discordant with the rest of her that it leaves him a little dazed. “It’s very… private. Detective,” she adds, and it reminds him of the girls in Catholic school when they would get caught doing this or that and cower awkwardly before a nun or priest.

He nods slowly. “That’s understandable, ma’am. Don’t worry. It will just be us.”

“Don’t you all have, uh, rooms? Like in those shows, I guess,” she laughs but abruptly cuts off the stressed sound herself. “I’m not here to confess to anything. Nothing to confess to,” she adds quickly, perfection cracking. “I need to….” She trails off, motioning vaguely with her free hand. She’s still touching him, and he’s pretty sure that’s not going to change anytime soon.

“Come with me. We have one of those rooms right over there,” he jokes. “Place where we can chat.”

She hums in agreement, eyes following the motion. It’s not unlike guiding Noah around by the hand, Seymour clinging to him like a lifeline as he awkwardly takes her around the inconsolable woman who is being guided to one such room herself, pretty slowly.

Skin still tingling, he knows Amanda’s eyes are on him, and this time he gets why; hell, he’d be staring, too. He’s painfully aware this is far from appropriate.

He scoops up his mug as they walk past his desk and makes sure to step forward and open the door for her, finally getting his hand free in the process. He may not be the smoothest, but he knows how to be a gentleman at least.

Seymour rushes in. Carisi enters more cautiously, and gently closes the door behind him, lingering there for a moment.

She dumps that damn purse on the couch and quickly follows it down. Like she’s carrying the weight of the world on her shoulders, her head tips forward, hair falling in her eyes, and he expects this is when the tears will finally come. She doesn’t cry, though. Instead, as soon as she’s comfortable, she’s pulling the purse close again, almost into her lap. Satisfied with that, she sighs heavily before taking a deep breath, letting it practically fill her until she’s sitting tall and straight once more.

Glancing from corner to corner, she finally asks, “Can I smoke in here?”

“Sure. I won’t tell if you don’t,” he adds, and grabs a rolly chair, drawing it right over.

Her smile is bright as can be, and he can’t tell if it’s because she appreciates it or thinks he looks funny in the chair, pant legs riding up to show off his socks. He could have sworn they were a match this morning, in the dark of his apartment, but now he can tell they’re two different shades of black and, sitting before this woman in her perfect heels, the heat of a blush prickles along the back of his neck.

With that, some trust has been ensured and she slips right out of the jacket she’s been so keen to use to hide. Carisi is careful not to look too long, taking a sip from his cup and leaning back in his seat instead. He props his feet on the coffee table while he’s at it.

“Did I offer you any coffee? I can get you some.”

She waves him off.

Seymour paws through her purse, scowling, and she’s distracted enough that he can get away with a peek. _Featherwood_ is tattooed across her wrist, real delicate-like. It’s a pretty tattoo, but it’s faded and of course the content ruins it. Carisi recognizes it, but hasn’t heard the term in a while and has to rack his brain to think of the meaning, but comes up empty. It’s racist and associated with gangs, that’s all he knows.

He understands why she’s trying so hard.

Scars long-healed from shooting up are speckled across the soft skin inside the bend of her elbow. When her sleeve rides up a little more, a faded symbol on her upper arm is revealed, one almost like an eight, but squared and with one angle missing. He’ll have to Google that later.

“Didn’t expect a-” She stops herself, peering at him out of the corner of her eye. He gazes back, brows raised. Sniffing, she shifts through her things a little slower. “Well, let’s just say I wasn’t expecting the NYPD to be so….” She shrugs, finally plucking a lighter from the mess.

“It’s not how it used to be,” Carisi mutters, turning to glance at the door before drawing his feet off the table once more. Her gaze is intense as he slides closer - close enough that he can smell her. Anxious sweat always smells so much worse than usual, especially mixed with smoke, but he doesn’t let himself show his discomfort. “You don’t gotta worry about that - promise. Not with me.”

Expression still hard, Seymour appears to be on the fence about this one. He sticks out his hand, jerky and a little awkward, offering his pinky finger. Her laugh is nice.

Her pinky hooks with his, and her eyes crinkle. She goes so soft with relief it’s nauseating. He’s worked with bad people before, though, people worse than her. “Yeah, yeah. Can tell you’re a good boy, aren’t you? Yeah.”

He doesn’t know how to respond to that. He hopes it doesn’t show.

“I’m with the Knights.”

Nodding solemnly, he pretends he knows what that means, but there are so many groups that go by that he doesn’t have a clue. He taps the inside of his wrist. “Saw.”

She nods right back. “That’s in my past. Those-” She falters, nose wrinkling. She’s not looking at Carisi, something far away instead. “That’s in my past. Not like the Knights. We’re good Christians - we really are. Follow God’s word.” Gaze going sharp, she peers at him as she takes a drag from her cigarette. He’s not expecting her attention to shift like that, to suddenly bear the brunt of all of her force. “You?”

“Me?” His voice ticks up at the end, and he clears his throat, pretending it never happened. She’s gracious enough to let him.

“Yeah, you a Christian boy?”

Instead of answering, he reaches in his shirt to draw out his crucifix pendant, letting it hang over the clean knot of his tie. He tries not to think about how Sokoll’s star had appeared much the same.

Her gaze goes bright again. Approving.

“God sent me to you!” she whispers, wondering. Holding out her cigarette, she scowls. “Where can I-?”

He pushes away from the coffee table, snags the (luckily empty) trashcan, and slides right back. This time, her laugh is grating and a little shaken.

“That works, huh?” he grins.

“Guess so. Now, what was I saying?” She flicks the ash into the can before taking another drag.

“God,” he supplies, trying not to sound as out of place as he feels.

“God! God sent me to you. That he did! I know he did.” Sonny does his best to keep his expression neutral, nodding with her. “He sent me to you,” she reiterates, more to herself than to him. “I’m a good Christian. I swear to God I am. Follow his word.”

She sounds more like she’s trying to convince herself than him.

“Always,” Carisi intones. What would she say to him being Catholic? As soon as he considers it, he decides he doesn’t want to know.

“Don’t mix races,” she mutters, shooting the door a dirty look before trying to peek through the blinds.

The nausea is back. What do the others do when this sort of thing comes up? When they have vics who are like this, not the perps? How could Fin not snap - or anyone else for that matter? He’s not close to it, but also not far. How had Amaro dealt with it? Does Barba work for people like this?

The time Barba said to call ICE is stuck on repeat in his head, clearer than day. It feels unfair of him to think about that right now.

“Unholy,” she spits. “Just tryin’ to follow his word, and do right by our race.” Her hands are back to shaking as she flicks the ash away. She appears haunted, eyes dark and face gaunt.

Carisi can imagine far too many options to answer the question of what could make a person feel such hate and fear. Again, he doesn’t want to know.

He stands from his chair, steeling himself for the shit that’s about to come out his mouth, and she looks at him with such a lost expression it’s like a physical pressure on his chest. Moving slow, he takes a seat by her, placing a hand on her knee, careful to keep his touch on the fabric of her skirt and not her skin. Her eyes are real sad.

He doesn’t want to know, he reminds himself.

“Miss Seymour-”

“You can call me Gracie, baby.” Her voice is low and rough. Sort of nice. That’s not something she should be calling him, and that’s not something he should be calling her.

“Gracie,” he says, smile somber. “You’re trying to protect our race. Our lineage. Our future, our kids…. It’s okay. Whatever it is, I’ll understand.” He squeezes her knee in his hand the way he knows makes women feel good. Good and safe. Her eyes are wet, now.

“He broke our code.”

Leaning in closer but careful not to crowd her, he waits.

Her cigarette, forgotten, spills ash into the can. “We’re good Christians. We don’t accept rapists or kiddy-fiddlers or whatever else,” she hisses, lip curled, and there’s that Staten Island accent creeping in. “We don’t break the laws of this land, or the laws He laid out. We’re good Christians,” she repeats, eyes finally meeting his once more. Her hand is warm when it settles over his own. “It’s not like the media paints it to be. It’s not like that at all. We’re fighting for the police every day! We’re fighting for law and justice. And- Well, he broke our code. He broke God’s. Justice needs to be served.”

He nods. He’s dizzy. “I can serve that justice.” It feels silly to say, but he supposes it’s true.

“Tomlinson,” she bursts out, eyes wide like she didn’t mean to say it at all. “His name is Tomlinson. Raymond Tomlinson, but everybody calls him Ray. Tommy Ray, sometimes.”

Carisi nods, shifting to pull a notepad out of his back pocket. He holds it up to her. “You mind if I write this down?”

“Go ahead, baby.”

He’s not sure how to respond to this new nickname, but he doesn’t dwell on it. He quickly records the name before turning back to her, looking for more.

“Real big fucker,” she scowls. As an afterthought, she mutters, “Pardon my French.”

He cracks a grin, but quickly lets it fall. “You know him, right? Know that’s his name? Can tell me what he looks like?”

She considers it for a moment, brow furrowed, and glances back out through the blinds.

“Hey, you don’t gotta worry about them. I promise. I’ll take care of you around here. I need as much of your help as I can get to catch this guy - to serve him the justice he deserves.” Her knee is sharp under his hand, and she’s shaking it slightly as she shifts her foot against the floor. She’s so damn sharp. “God brought you to me, yeah? He doesn’t give us burdens we can’t bear. Just gotta work through it.”

This time, her eyes are steely when they meet his. She’s nodding faintly. “No, no he doesn’t, does he?”

Sonny is thankful for all that thought he put into being a priest. In a weird way, being a detective isn’t terribly different.

“Is there anything else you can tell me? Can you tell me what he did?”

Her face closes, and for a moment he’s afraid he said something wrong, but she drops her cigarette in the can and folds both hands over his. “He raped a little girl - one that used to come around with her daddy, Richard Price. Real pretty thing. Pretty hair, pretty eyes. Perfect, pale, and blue-eyed. Loved her daddy, and loved the Lord.”

Throat dry, Carisi licks his lips, brow knit together. “And is she… alright?”

Grace closes her eyes like it pains her. “No. Not- No. Just- It was a few months back she stopped coming around. Her daddy, Price, he tried to tell the-the- He tried to contact Gary Monker, for fuck’s sake. He did, swear to God. He told everyone he could-”

“Monker?”

Her brow wrinkles. “Yeah, our Exalted Cyclops,” she says, as if that should be obvious, and Carisi wonders if he’s missing something. _Cyclops_ sure isn’t what he was prepared for. Maybe he missed fresh track marks. “The chief officer of the Loyal White Knights. We’re located out of Hampton Bays.”

Rubbing his jaw, Carisi stares at “Raymond ‘Tommy Ray’ Tomlinson” written out in his chicken scratch. He adds this name beneath it. “Did the crime occur there?”

She shakes her head. “No, sir. Here. I live here, just head to the Bays for meetings sometimes. But they hold meetings here, too. Got a little place in the basement of a-” She bites her lip and rubs the tattoo on the inside of her wrist.

“Hey,” he says gently. “I know you’re a good Christian woman, Gracie. I know your people are good, because they’re _my_ people. I’m not going to go after my people for anything. We can save the details for later, but I need to know where the crime took place.” After a breath, he continues, “The basement. Can you tell me more about what happened there?”

She nods, thankful. “Hold meetings there. I- Forgive me for keeping you in the dark for now, baby. But we do, in this basement. There’s a rule, the kids are more than welcome around but they have to be with an adult. Keeps things calm, make sure there aren’t any angry parents who- You get the idea.

“Thing is, little girl - Tabitha Price, that’s her name. This little girl was such a good Christian. She was happy to help with anything we needed….”

Carisi’s hand moves to her back. It’s instinct, calming women. Automatic when you have three sisters.

Gracie takes a deep breath. Without further delay, her hand is back in her purse, fishing for a cigarette. “She wanted to come around after classes. I would’ve gladly been her caretaker. But I have work, y’know? Gotta-” She shakes her head, abandoning the search for her cigarette.

She’s back to shaking.

“She was so damn small,” she chokes. “Tiniest little thing! Only fifteen, but she looked so much younger! God, she was the fucking- So fucking small.”

Gracie’s hand is small. It fists in his shirt, still shaking. Carisi rubs circles between her shoulders.

“I didn’t- I didn’t see it. But I saw the- After, I-I saw her little- Oh, _God_ \- It was split- She-” Gracie sobs. Carisi glances at the door furtively, unsure for reasons he can’t name, and silently hopes that no one walks in right now, again for reasons he doesn’t know. “Her split lip. I was so fucking shocked. I didn’t know what I was looking at. Her little- Tears all over her-her cheeks. There was another boy there- I-I didn’t know ‘im. Young, though not as young as her. Baby, her cheeks were so wet and-and he said- Ray told me she- Walked into a wall! Like I dunno what it looks like when a woman’s been beat!”

Carisi hushes her gently, pulling out his phone. “This okay? Can I record?”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” she says, tucking closer to his side. He’s starting to get the idea this isn’t all that platonic, but he’s not sure how to get out of it. She sets her jaw, furrows her brow, and pushes back, releasing him. “It was a while back. But you can still charge him, yeah?”

“You said it was a few months. How many?”

It’s uncomfortable for her to be silent. Carisi turns to face her, trying to school his expression to one of calm, knowing that’s how she needs to see it. Now her makeup is smearing from tears.

“She’s pregnant. Fifteen, and she’s pregnant.”

His hands are wet around the pen and pad in his hand. “Gracie,” he says gently, “I need to go get my boss. And a sketch artist. Would you be willing to tell us what that kid looked like? The one you didn’t recognize? I just wanna-”

“Yeah. Stop asking. Do what you gotta do.” Her voice is hard and fierce. She pushes him toward the door. “Get that-that- What’d you call it? The artist. Whatever it is. Get ‘em.”

Chuckling around the odd lump that has formed in his throat, Carisi bobs his head. “Right, the sketch artist. One second, Gracie.”

Pausing before leaving, he asks, “Can I get you a drink? Got a vending machine and some shit coffee.”

Smile broken, she shakes her head. “Nah, couldn’t keep anything down this morning and I doubt that’s changed.”

Nodding, he turns to leave. He almost jumps when he opens the door to find Rollin’s, her hand raised to knock. Brows arched, she opens her mouth to speak, but before she can Carisi ushers her right out and firmly shuts the door.

Glancing around, Carisi tries not to look at Fin for too long. Finally, he dips his head, keeping his words between them. “Don’t go in. I need to talk to the captain,’” he tells her, voice low.

Her brows creep ever higher. “That isn’t someone you know, is it?”

Pulling a face, he shakes his head. “What? No. Come here.” She follows him away from the door, curious. Carisi snags the arm of the woman who passed by him to get some coffee earlier, and murmurs, “Can you do me a favor?”

She perks up, and next to him Rollins shifts, eyeing him. “Sure, what do you need?”

“There’s a woman in that room. Can you stop her if she tries to leave? Or come tell me, or something?”

“Yeah, yeah. Where will you be?”

He jerks his chin toward Olivia’s. “Lieutenant's office.”

“Alright.”

“Her name’s Grace - Gracie Seymour. If she tries to leave, you tell her I’m getting her a sketch artist.”

Rollins makes a noise that sounds vaguely disapproving. It’s not one he’s heard from her before, so it’s not in his catalogue yet. “Are you not? Getting her a sketch artist, I mean.”

“No, no. I am. I gotta get everyone caught up first. Up to speed.”

“Alright. I can do that. Maybe you’ll owe me a coffee for it though?”

Carisi turns back to the woman - officer Vega, he reminds himself - more than a little shocked. She has almond eyes and a beauty mark next to her brow; her jaw is strong, her lips curled. He grins from ear to ear, and from somewhere to his right Rollins laughs lowly and sort of shifts away. Vega’s gaze doesn’t stray from him, though, eyes bright as can be. He likes that.

“Yeah, I think I will owe you a coffee. What do I call you?” His grin stretches further when Fin whistles behind him.

“Nerea,” she supplies, holding out her hand.

He takes it between his own, cheeks aching from how wide he’s grinning. “Sonny.”

“I’ll get your number later. You better go get that sketch artist.” She winks and strides towards her desk. Carisi is left to gaze after her with that dumb smile still splitting his face.

Rollins punches his arm lightly, and there are a few laughs from around the room. He’s pretty sure someone gives Nerea a high five.

“Come on, loverboy. The sketch artist,” Rollins jeers, taking him by the elbow.

“Yeah, yeah. The sketch artist.”

Benson stands when they enter the room despite looking like she only now took a seat. Of course, she notices Carisi’s slight flush right away. “What’s wrong?”

“Got a woman that came in a few minutes ago reporting a rape - not her own. She’s, uh-” Carisi glances behind him at the door as Fin comes in, expression questioning when he catches Carisi’s gaze. “Close that, will you? Sort of a sensitive topic.”

“‘A sensitive topic?’” he repeats, lips curling. “Alright.”

Carisi turns back to Benson in time to catch her sharing a look with Rollins. That same irritation from earlier returns to him, though he knows how ridiculous it is.

“Grace Seymour. She belongs to the KKK - the, uh, hold on I think I wrote it down.” He tugs his notepad out of his pocket along with his phone. “Recorded a bit of the conversation, too. But she was mostly crying in what I got. Here it is - the, uh, the Loyal White Knights. Said something about being sourced in Hampton Bays.”

Rollins’ expression darkens. “Yeah, I know them. Had a group based out of Covington, Georgia. They were passing out fliers.”

“In 2017?” Benson murmurs, incredulous in that weak way that comes to each of them at times, with cases like this.

“Oh yeah,” Fin mutters, and they turn. His tone is dark, his lips twisted. “Didn’t hear about the LWK passing out fliers in East Hampton Village, I’m guessing. Or about them threatening to show up to that Black Lives Matter protest last year.”

Rollins appears mortified. Carisi feels about the same.

“It’s 2017 and hate is alive and well,” Fin concludes. “I mean, just look at the white house.”

Liv presses her lips together and inclines her head in acknowledgement.

“So, you’ve got one of these KKK members in there? Don’t tell me she’s reporting some black on white rape.”

“No, no - nothing like that,” Carisi assures him. “She tells me there’s this girl that comes around the group, yeah? A, uh, fifteen year old. Said she came in to find the aftermath of this girl being raped by one of their members - an adult man. The father of this girl apparently reported this to the-” he motions vaguely. “One of the leaders. Monker, or something. I don’t remember his title,” he lies, because saying “Cyclops” right now would come off as some sort of insensitive joke. He shrugs. “Nothing was done. Don’t know about the police, but she did say it happened here, not in Hampton Bays.”

Swallowing thickly, he shoves his hands in his pockets. Glancing back to Benson, he says, “Girl is pregnant, according to her.”

Closing her eyes, Benson ducks her head and takes a deep breath. Fin sighs from behind them.

“I told her I’d get a sketch artist in there so she could describe the kid. Oh, did I mention the kid?” he trails off, looking back to his notepad. “Suspect’s name is Raymond ‘Tommy Ray’ Tomlinson. But there was this kid there. One she didn’t know.”

Olivia nods. “Alright. Fin, run his name. Rollins, get-” She closes her eyes again, wincing. “Get a white sketch artist in here, if you can,” she finishes, obviously pained. “Carisi, I assume you’ve gotten on this woman’s good side?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Alright. Keep working with her. Get as much information as you can.”

* * *

 

 

Gracie is clutching the bag to her chest as she describes the boy to the sketch artist. Rollins did what the captain requested of her and got Harry, the sketch artist who’s even whiter than Carisi. He sits perched in the seat Carisi had previously been in, hair ruffled and tie a little loose. He always manages to look like he’s running late for something, yet isn’t sure what.

“He, uh, had sort of a-a beaky nose, y’know?” Gracie mutters, motioning at her own nose as if to draw it out herself. “No, no. Not like that. Sharper. Yeah, yeah - now you’re getting it. He had bad acne too. You need to know that, right? I mean, it’s sort of a weird detail, but it was noticeable. Maybe his skin has cleared up since then, though….”

Carisi can’t help but smile a little as he listens to her chatter. He closes the door behind him, making sure it grates as he does so she knows he’s here. Immediately, she goes stiff, glancing back only to brighten upon spotting him.

“Detective!” Her voice is high and tight, and he can’t tell if it’s from fear or something else. “I, uh, I’ve been telling Mr. Harry here what that kid looked like.” She turns her face to Carisi, expectant, almost like she’s waiting for some form of approval.

He smiles, awkward but trying to stay charming, and takes a seat by her on the couch. “I really appreciate this, Gracie. Would you prefer I call you Gracie or Miss Seymour?” he checks, already knowing the answer.

“Please, call me Gracie,” she insists, hand finding the inside of his arm. Her eyes are beseeching, and his answering smile is as wavering as before but at least honest. The ring on her finger keeps catching his attention.

“Right, Gracie.”

“Ma’am,” Harry says, voice slightly lilting in that funny, Brooklyn way of his; Carisi isn’t one to judge, he supposes. “What was his hair like?”

“Oh! Oh, right, that. Uh, short. Real short. Kid had a buzzcut. Come to think of it, pretty sure he had a, uh-” She motions vaguely, looking to Carisi like he’ll read her mind or know the word sitting on the tip of her tongue. “Oh, you know, one of those jackets. Military sort of thing.”

“Army green, lots of pockets?” Harry pipes up.

“Yes! Exactly! Rough and tumble sort of boy. And his cheeks,” she says pointing vaguely to the picture Harry is putting together, “were bigger. Baby face, sort of.”

Harry nods, and gently erases a few lines.

Gracie turns those sad eyes on him, appearing ready to crawl out of her skin once again. She tugs on her jacket, and Sunny only now registers that she put it back on. “So… everything’s going how it should be?”

He blinks, not entirely sure what she’s asking. “Yeah, you’re doing great. We’re going to get her justice thanks to everything you’ve done today.”

Sitting straight, she’s shocked but pleased, her flush spreading down her throat. “So this,” she motions to Harry and the paper, “drawing will be enough to find that boy?” She’s not convinced, and he can’t blame her. Even Harry cracks a smile.

“It’s a great start, Gracie. You’d be surprised what we can do with less.”

Her relief is tangible. “And….” She lets herself trail off before she even properly gets anything out, glancing at Harry.

“How about I let you get finished up with Harry, here, and then we can talk more. Until then, I’ll go order some takeout or something. What do you like?”

Smile grateful, Gracie eases back in her seat. Her fingers are digging into the leather of her purse to the point he sincerely expects her to damage it with those nails of hers. “Something warm, I don’t really care about much else. Not hot, though. Like spicy, I mean,” she explains, nose wrinkled and mouth twisting.

“Warm, not spicy. I can do that.” Carisi grins, standing to leave once more. “I’ll see you in a minute. Later, Harry.”

Harry shoots him a sedate smile and goes right back to work.

 

* * *

Gracie wasn’t exaggerating about him being a real big fucker. Tomlinson is 6’1 and thick with muscle. His mug shot has captured him with a black eye and a split lip, there due to an altercation with the arresting officers according to a report.

Tomlinson has a rap sheet as long as Carisi’s arm, it turns out. In Georgia, there are a handful of unlawful carrying charges and a charge for aggravated assault, which appears to be from a domestic incident with an old girlfriend. He got hit with a fine of a thousand dollars and a year in prison, relatively light in comparison to the five year max one could get for carrying around a sawed-off shotgun not to mention the assault. It’s mind boggling.

In South Carolina, his reign of terror continues with an aggravated sexual assault charge and a statutory case he slipped out of thanks to a lack of evidence and a young, young vic. That time, she was barely over 13, according to the reports, but all else about her is suppressed; it’s a wonder they kept even that information available. Again, it was just a year in prison and a small fine.

In New York, there’s a few stalking incidents, not that the laws in that area are much even when they do manage to get a guy, and yet another aggravated assault charge. Nothing has ever properly stuck, not anywhere or at any time, and these are only the incidents they can get at after he hit legal age.

The nausea strikes again; Sonny thought he was over this sort of thing after his first homicide, but apparently not, though that humanity isn’t a bad thing in his mind.

Staring at the eyes of Tomlinson, crinkled around the edges like he’s sharing some private joke with the camera, he finds himself questioning how many women have looked into those eyes before being struck or held down or worse. It’s cases like these that make him shake with rage and stare hard at each guy his sisters bring around, forever guessing at who could be walking free despite a thousand cruelties committed and laws broken. How could anyone - judge, jury, cop - could let this guy slip through the cracks?

Twelve months. Only twelve.

Fin turns in his chair, peering at Carisi with sharp eyes. “We have to nail him this time.” He sounds as tired as Carisi feels, but not as hopeful - faithful is a better word for it. Meeting his eyes, Carisi can tell he doesn’t have much faith the system will do any better this time around. Considering the unfairness seeping into every aspect of the situation, Carisi can’t blame him.

He nods, trying to swallow to get rid of the tightness in his throat, but it stays. He clenches his fists, takes a breath in, and relaxes them as he breathes out. The pressure eases. “I’m gonna go back in. She should be finishing up with the sketch artist.”

Fin glances at the clock pointedly. “Tomorrow, you and Rollins going to find this Price guy?”

Following his gaze, Carisi winces at how late it is; no sleeping on Amanda’s couch tonight. “Yeah, guess we will.”

Nodding, Fin turns back to his computer. Carisi assumes this is his signal to get going, but he finds himself lingering instead, eyes trained on the back of Fin’s neck - on the color of his skin. He hasn’t questioned what Fin’s heritage is, but he finds himself questioning it now. Questions if this is the first time he’s had to sit in the office while the rest of his team goes out to deal with racists, too. He wonders if he’s okay.

His mind is going a mile a minute tonight, and he still has all of that paperwork to finish; it sure as hell won’t get done when he’s in this state.

“Something wrong, Carisi?” he mutters, and Carisi can’t tell if that’s amusement or irritation in his voice.

“Yeah - I mean, no. I just-” Carisi closes his mouth, knowing he’s going to say something dumb.

Fin turns his head slowly, eyeing him. They aren’t as close as the rest of the team. Carisi is okay with that, hasn’t thought much about it honestly but now he is. Why hasn’t he shared more drinks with Fin, asked about his son more, or bought him a damn coffee in the morning? Is his unintentional avoidance racist? Carisi’s honestly not sure.

He doesn’t think much about race, either, and he’s gone on assuming that means he’s not a racist, but a lot of people don’t think about a lot of things like hating women or gay people. He’s witnessed it firsthand, working here and with his sisters, with their boyfriends or their shitty coworkers or that guy who kept sending Gina vaguely sexual messages on Facebook. He’s seen that in them, even, whenever he brings a girl home or a guy. Them wondering over things again, questions they’ve hounded him with for years in their eyes.

“Are you sure you’re not just gay, Sonny? You know we wouldn’t care.” That’s Teresa’s favorite line, muttered all hush over her coffee cup after she finishes giving him hell for adding too much sugar to his own. Sometimes “gay” is replaced with “straight,” but it’s like it’s harder for her to think like that. He’s not sure he gets it - not sure he wants to.

“So… a guy.” Bella will whisper, raise her brow, and sometimes even wink. “Sure you won’t,” she’ll motion to her chest or to her other bits, vague, “miss something?”

“You alright, Carisi?” Fin asks, and yeah that’s amusement but also concern in his voice, which sort of feels good yet bad. Carisi didn’t intend to be a bother.

Carisi focuses his gaze somewhere to the right of his eyes. He’s probably racist. Most people probably are. Guilt is winding tight in his belly and chest along with this sadness that has taken to weighing on his shoulders.

He swallows around his tongue, which suddenly feels foreign in his own mouth, and lets his mind go back to his conversation with Seymour. Her opinions on unholiness, the Lord’s law, and segregation are rattling around in his head in a way he hadn’t let them at the time, and he feels strange in his own skin. He meets Fin’s eyes, earning a questioning look; he can only imagine what expression he’s wearing himself.

“I was thinking,” he says, haltingly, “that it’s shitty.”

Leaning back, Fin gazes at him harder still. Carisi’s not sure how that’s possible.

“Y’know? I mean, shit- Yeah, of course you know. I mean that you’re a good cop.” He pauses. Focuses on the screen of the computer instead of Fin’s eyes, because it’s easier. “A good man,” he says, considering if this might be too personal. No, it is too personal and he knows it. “Color of your skin shouldn’t change that. That’s all.”

It would be less painful if he physically shoved his foot in his mouth.

There’s a moment of silence that lingers between them, drawing out impossibly long. Fin breaks it by laughing, the sound low but honest. Jerking a little, Carisi manages to face him properly this time. Eyes crinkling, Fin smiles, but it’s a sad sort of smile. Again, this is something Carisi doesn’t recognize, an expression he hasn’t categorized yet because it’s his first time seeing it.

“Y’know,” Fin begins, teasing him, before looking back to the screen with the image of Tomlinson, so haggard, “I didn’t know what to think about you at first. Still don’t sometimes. Keep taking me by surprise.”

Back of his neck burning, Carisi scratches at his wrist. “Good or bad?”

Fin shrugs. “Not bad. Not sure if it’s good, either,” he pins to the end, smirk growing.

Carisi’s shoulders loosen, along with his hands. “I can work with that, I guess. I, uh, just wanted to say. Anyway, better get back.”

“Uh-huh,” Fin hums, chuckling as he goes back to his own work. “Oh, Carisi.”

He turns back, anxiety kicking in once more.

“Don’t make this weird,” he requests, shaking his head a little. “I’m black, you’re white. It is what it is.”

Carisi nods, sharp.

Fin stifles a laugh. Carisi’s pretty sure it’s at his expense, but he can’t really blame him in this moment.

Turning on his heel, Carisi intends to grab the bag of takeout from his desk and head back in to talk to Gracie before Harry is finished so she’s not stuck in there alone again. It’s not good for the nerves, and not good manners as his mother would say. Police stations bring out anxiety in even the most innocent of people, which is understandable. This is the sort of place most people expect to never be. He’s so in his own head, and stumbling slightly over himself in his tired and hungry state, that he almost walks right into Barba, who appears as peeved as one might expect.

He typically looks frustrated, but this is a special brand of annoyed that comes out when a judge accepts a particularly ridiculous motion or he hasn’t eaten enough. Carisi is pretty sure it’s the latter today, going by the time.

Barba becomes tremendously caustic when hungry, which is perhaps the first thing Carisi learned about him by shadowing him, along with the fact that he will go all day without eating until he’s snappy and Carmen dumps cheap takeout on his desk or a glucose pill.

“Detective,” he mutters, voice heavy and dark, and pins Carisi with his gaze.

“Counsellor,” Carisi returns, aiming at sounding amused instead of shaken. “What can I do for you? It’s pretty late for you to be hanging around here, isn’t it?” He steps away from Fin’s desk so he’s not continuing to pester him by taking up his space.

“I came to ask if you wanted to grab dinner and discuss the Vasilev case,” he says, glancing at the takeout on Carisi’s desk. Hit the nail on the head. “But I see I’m too late.”

Barba has never come around himself to invite them out to dinner, typically it’s Benson or Carisi who has to pretend to push for Barba to join them until he pretends just as emphatically to give in. Carisi smiles until his cheeks hurt even while frustration settles in his shoulders, tightening the muscles there. He hasn’t had a chance to spend any time with Barba in a good while, and bickering with him over Barba’s fancy salmon dinners or Carisi’s cheap spaghetti is almost as calming to him as gossiping with Kim as he dozes.

“I have to handle a case tonight, but maybe tomorrow?” Hoping he doesn’t sound too pleading, he adds, “Could go to that burger place you pretend not to like.”

As soon as he says it, Barba’s eyes flicker across his face as if taking him in properly for the first time, brows slowly rising. The back of his neck is heating again. It may come across a little strange, how he put it.

“I don’t need to pretend, I sincerely prefer my burgers more meat than grease.”

Laugh shocked out of him, Carisi’s cheeks only hurt worse, but in the best of ways. He swears he spots a glint of amusement in Barba’s eyes, too, and maybe his lips curling. It’s quickly gone, though, replaced by pursed lips as Barba motions to the paperwork littered across Carisi’s desk.

“You needed this done yesterday, did you not?”

“Since when were you the captain, Counsellor?” he counters, still as amused as before. He’s good at not taking things personally, and even better at it when it’s Barba pushing him around a little. It’s clear why he does it, that it’s never personal even when it appears otherwise, at least to everyone else.

This time he gets the usual smirk in response. “Is there something new?” he asks instead of persisting, and Carisi has to question why he’s here, like this. Barba is tilting his head slightly to peer at Fin’s computer screen as he searches for Tomlinson’s current place of residence.

“Work getting so boring you gotta’ come here to get some excitement?”

Barba shoots him a look, but it’s not unkind.

Carisi’s smile comes back with a vengeance. “Yeah, there’s a, uh, an odd case that’s come up.” He jerks his head in the direction of the room Harry has just exited, pad of paper in hand. “Woman in there is-” He pauses, glancing to the door once more, and steps closer to Barba. The expression of amusement on Barba’s face isn’t kind, unlike the one before, but Carisi can’t help but like it. “She’s a member of a subset of the KKK.”

That amusement is gone from Barba’s expression in the blink of an eye, his shoulders drawing back in a way that makes Carisi’s skin prickle. He feels, inexplicably, as if he’s insulted him. Barba’s expression is simply blank, giving Carisi nothing to go on, then his lips curl in one slow, vicious expression of disgust.

Carisi is shaken, honestly. Barba is unshakeable himself, unaffected no matter the circumstances. Irritation is a neutral state for him, or at least that’s how Carisi has come to view it, and anything other than it is almost unreal.

Fin makes a muffled noise behind them, like he’s trying not to laugh again.

Carisi is at a loss. He wants to ask what’s wrong, what’s happened, what did he say. He says nothing.

Barba’s eyes are on Fin instantly, but just as quickly his focus is on Carisi once more. “I see,” he says simply, as if that’s that.

Carisi swallows thickly, shrugging jerkily in answer to nothing. “Came in to report a rape,” he says, voice growing lower and lower. “She- Ah, the victim isn’t her. It’s a kid. We’re going to head out to find the father and vic tomorrow.”

“And the KKK? How do they play into this?” he demands, words so deceptively soft goosebumps creep up Sonny’s arms in response.

“They’re all members.”

Barba, of all things, rolls his eyes. “You all have a habit of attracting ridiculous cases, don’t you?”

The suddenness of it has Carisi barking out a laugh. Barba’s expression is almost fond, at least for him. Or maybe Carisi is getting a little too low on food himself and needs to eat before he starts hallucinating. Carisi feels a little like he’s losing it.

“Liv is still here,” Fin says, and Carisi almost comes out of his skin; he forgot he was there. “I was thinking about inviting her to grab a bite with me after I finish this. I sort of doubt she’ll be joining me considering all of this,” he sighs, tilting his head toward the room Seymour still resides in. “You’re welcome to join me either way.”

“I’ll take you up on that offer.” Barba turns his face to Carisi, eyes narrowed, expression closed. “I know I shouldn’t ask for my own sanity, but how old is the victim?”

Letting his breath out through his nose, Carisi tells him.

Barba closes his eyes, letting this information sink in. He appears almost peaceful. “And her ethnicity?”

“She’s another member. I take it she’s white.”

Carisi wouldn’t say Barba appears relieved, per se, but that’s the best way he can describe the expression he now wears. Nodding slowly, he lets his gaze slip away from Carisi, instead looking again to the screen of Fin’s computer.

Swallowing thickly, Carisi slips his hand into the handles of the bag. “I really need to take this to her. It was good seeing you, Counsellor.”

Barba’s answering nod is quick, barely there. “Detective.”

In the room, waiting for him, Gracie is pacing. As soon as he opens the door, he smiles, holding up the food. She doesn’t act as excited to see him this time, instead hurrying over, that damn purse clutched tight to her chest.

“Hey, hey - you were - the-”

“Woah, woah, woah…” Carisi murmurs, voice soft, and sets the bag on the table. Her hands are shaking as she holds the bag tighter still. “What’s wrong, Gracie?”

“I just-” She drags her hand through her hair, distraught - inconsolable.

“Gracie,” he says, voice and hands gentle. “Gracie, I need you to talk to me. Do you need to leave? Is that what’s wrong?”

Tucking her chin in, she tries to hide the tears forming in her eyes. “I-I don’t know. I really don’t know. I just- This isn’t how it-” She takes a deep, shaking breath, and meets Carisi’s eyes. She looks twenty years younger, tears spilling over, and so lost. “Sonny- Sonny, right?”

“Right.”

She nods, turning her face back to the floor. “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“It’s okay. It really is. I’ll help walk you through it. I promise it’ll be okay.”

She looks at him again, and Carisi has seen that expression enough times to recognize it immediately. The fear of someone abused is unique in a way that’s hard for to describe. Sometimes he wonders if he can only recognize it because it’s something that resides in himself, too. His heart hurts for her, and for every other woman in her place. He steps closer, hand finding hers, fingers curling around her palm and hers shakingly returning the gesture with unspoken eagerness.

“Grace, I’m not going to let anyone hurt you again. I’m not going to let this man get away with hurting that little girl, either.”

He’s expecting her to breakdown again, to be shattered, but instead she jerks her hand away. She moves to turn, shoulders shifting, but pauses as if considering her options before instead digging into her purse and pulling out a ziploc baggy. “I-I don’t know why I- I should have given this to you right away. Take it.”

He takes it. There are panties in it. There’s blood.

“Gracie, where did you get these?”

Her lips twist, her eyes close. Her cheeks are wet with tears. “I found it… in the back of Tab’s closet. God help us, she tried to hide it. Bawled like a babe when I found them. I- Sonny, I don’t think she- I know she must have periods to be able to carry a child but she….” Her eyes grow glassy and distant.

Biting the inside of his lip, he struggles to find the words to soothe her in this moment.

Setting the bag on the counter, far from their food, Carisi turns his attention to her. He takes her hand in his, and guides her to sit on the couch as she tiredly stumbles. A few moments later, Rollins and the Lieu come in, Rollins with tea in hand. Carisi holds Grace’s hand through it all, just like he promised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I started writing this after thinking about the issue of racism in the LGBTQIA+ community and, of course, Trump, but before the recent violence involving KKK/Nazi/etc. groups. It feels more than a little strange have all of this happening while writing this. I bring it up now because I want to state that this isn't based on any real event that I am aware of. I mention many real places, real people even (yes, [the cyclops is real](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ku_Klux_Klan_titles_and_vocabulary#Dens) \- that's a real thing the KKK has, a real title that grown men and women use for each other 100% seriously outside of D&D), and some real events (yes, the LWK threatened to go after BLM, [handed out pamphlets in the dead of night ](http://newyork.cbslocal.com/2014/08/26/hamptons-residents-shocked-after-finding-ku-klux-klan-pamphlets/), etc.), but to my knowledge there has been no case similar to this, and I pray there never is.


	2. With Obstacles, With People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tears keep coming until she’s trembling with each sob, her face going from wan to pink and damp. She pulls at Carisi’s arm until she has his hand clasped to her stomach like she’s forgotten she has a hold of him. Trepidation turns to panic as his skin makes contact with the cotton of her dress, the pink flowers twisted as they're forced to stretch around her growth, mockingly bright. Beneath his touch, her stomach is firm in a way he’s familiar with, but small in a way he’s not. He’s witnessed many women in his life bear children, but this is like a shadow or a twisted parody of each experience he’s had so far.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your feedback! I almost didn't post this, thinking that it wasn't really the type of thing anyone would be interested in, so to hear otherwise means a lot.
> 
> A list of warnings is available at the end of this chapter, and as always you can message me on tumblr for more details if there's an issue or you need further warnings.

_Chapter Two: August 3rd_

Carisi offers to take files to Barba whenever he has the chance. It’s in part a habit after spending so much time hanging around him in search of even the smallest crumb of information or advice, but more significantly a sincere desire to see him.

Sticking to him like glue through case after case, Carisi has found even Barba’s most prickly behaviors growing on him, not that he disliked them to begin with. Interacting with Barba in all sorts of contexts has led him to the conclusion Barba doesn’t mean any harm. From red in the face after a bad ruling, refusing to let Carisi slip away to drink alone in a bar and fume about the failure without a tongue lashing, to a touch tipsy on Olivia’s couch, crowded against each other and laughing about a perp stumbling over _in pari delicto_ like the words were sticking to his tongue, Barba’s not as bad as he seems determined to make everyone believe. He can be infuriating as all hell and stubborn beyond compare, but he’s a good man. Not only that, but Carisi no longer finds Barba’s fussiness, sharp personality, and the smell of too-expensive coffee in his office intimidating but amusing, if not endearing.

He likes Carmen, too. They’ve grown close through gentle teasing and takeout. It started with poking fun at Barba’s grumpiness, him being the one thing bringing them together. Their meals were spent laughing like they were the only two in the world to know Barba becomes snappish when he skips his own meals, has a weakness for cats, and likes cheap takeout more than the fancy fish he swoons over with Carmen though he refuses to admit it. Since then it has evolved, and they now split Pad Thai and trade stories about their sisters.

Carisi will snag her coffee refills from Barba’s office because he keeps the good stuff stocked away there. Each time, Barba huffs and taps his pen against his desk as if he can menace Carisi out of stealing it, but it’s all for show. Carmen has a knack for knowing just when Barba is getting caustic and will stick her head in and find some way to distract him from his frustration with Carisi, whatever it may be that day. It’s a beneficial, if unspoken, trade.

Sonny likes it. It’s homey and familiar around the office, now, and he feels safe coming in. Carmen no longer looks at him with her lips tilting into frowns and Barba doesn’t snarl and bicker with him as if hoping Sonny will give up and go; instead, he’s met with her smiles and Barba’s gentled teasing. Sometimes, when Barba knows he’s coming, there will even be a cup of coffee waiting for him, fixed how he likes.

Whenever he volunteers as delivery boy, the Lieu will shake her head and remind him of not only his paperwork (because it’s truly never-ending) but the many people they could ask to do this in his place. In the end, she always lets him go, and Amanda and Fin will tease him good naturedly.

Carisi tells them he keeps going because Barba has better coffee than the crap they keep around the precinct. Amanda, grinning, counters by telling him he looks like a lost puppy whenever he talks about Barba while Fin chuckles.

He’s sure he does, or did. He hopes he’s getting better about that.

When he enters the office today, Carmen glances at him distractedly, and he can tell by the furrow of her brow she’s about to curtly announce Barba is busy. As soon as she realizes it’s him, though, she’s all smiles. “Hey, Sonny.”

He grins right back and motions to Barba’s door. “Hey. He in there?” He shoulders his bag, and sets the box of glazed donuts he got on the way over on her desk. He shouldn’t have, didn’t really have the time for it, but bringing them food is such a habit he always finds himself fidgeting when he doesn’t, feeling like he’s forgotten something.

“Aw,” she says, eyes going soft. He finds himself blushing like a kid, intensely aware of how goofy his grin is. “Such a sweetheart.”

“Should hide them from Barba,” he suggests laughingly even as he opens the box and uses a napkin to snag one, intending to do the opposite.

Her laugh is bright as can be. “Would keep his sugar from dropping, at least. Anyway, he’s here. Working on the Vasilev case, I believe. Get him to drink some water or something while you’re in there, if you’re going to give him that.”

Grin aching, Carisi follows her to the door, sharing a significant look with her as she opens it for him and steps back. It’s a warning that Barba’s in a mood.

Carisi slips in, biting his lips to keep from laughing.

Setting the donut gingerly on a bare spot on Barba’s desk, he opens his bag to retrieve the paperwork he brought over before adding it to the stack before him. That done, Carisi makes a beeline for the coffee machine by the wall.

Barba doesn’t even look up from the file he’s scanning through, and oddly enough he takes it as progress. Barba isn’t one to let people wander around his office, it’s an honor saved for Carm, Liv, and apparently now him. He can’t help but preen, a little smug about it despite how damn irrelevant a thing it is.

“I thought you were going to be out handling the situation with the KKK today,” Barba mutters, still not facing Carisi. He sounds oddly bitter about it, and Carisi can’t tell if it’s because it’s the KKK or something Carisi has done himself. “Or that paperwork you owe me.” That answers that.

“The paperwork’s there.” Carisi smirks despite how damn tired he is. If someone were to ask, he’s not sure he would be able to tell them how much sleep he got last night - or, more accurately, how much he didn’t. “Took all night, but it’s good. Promise.”

Barba is quiet, sated, going back to his work. Carisi takes it as a win.

As if waiting for Carisi, a bag of Kona coffee is sitting out along with the sickly-sweet Touareg tea Barba sometimes makes when they’ve finished a case. He snags the obvious choice.

“I’m beginning to think you come here just to steal my coffee.”

Lips quirking, Carisi counters, “Gonna charge me with theft?”

“Don’t tempt me.”

With a laugh, Carisi starts the machine, brewing a fresh pot. He figures Barba and Carmen have already finished off at least one, considering they’ve been here an hour or two. Knowing Barba, sometimes he suspects the man never leaves. He could have been here the whole night, judging by the slight purpling under his eyes; but he’s wearing a fresh suit and his hair is as neat as ever, so it could be Carisi’s imagination.

“We never got to discuss the Vasilev case.” Sonny looks over his shoulder at Barba, waiting.

He hums in response, turning over a paper in his hand. “I’m not pleading out,” he says, as if expecting Carisi of all people to object. He wasn’t intending to, and doesn’t plan on it any more now. “Though I’m sure Langan will make it hell.”

Sighing, long and heavy, he leans back in his chair. The shadows beneath Barba’s eyes make him appear much older and more worn than usual, even in the sunset-orange tie that brightens him. Did Barba manage to sleep even less than him? Did he stay here last night?

The image of Barba struggling to find a comfortable position on the couch rises, unbidden, to the forefront of his mind. All too clearly, Carisi can picture the uncomfortable bend of his knees and hear the ghost of muttered curses as Barba attempting to fit. Carisi’s chest aches with both amusement and sympathy for something that may be nothing more than imagined.

He often questions how Barba’s health doesn’t suffer from the stress and lack of sleep that come with his job. It’s embarrassingly similar to how he worries over Amanda eating shitty pizza and managing motherhood and detective work essentially on her own. Sometimes he wonders what it is about these two specifically that inspires him to fuss over them like he does his sisters, but for the most part he doesn’t question it.

Barba stretches out, arms drawn back to flex his shoulders, and Carisi considers what people say about pet owners looking like their pets. He wishes he had asked Carmen for more pictures of Barba’s cat, which he still suspects isn’t real in the same trancelike, confused way he suspects he’ll wake tomorrow to find he dreamed up the current president. Barba sharing space with the mere mortals of the world is hard enough to believe, but a cat is another matter entirely.

Leaving the coffee machine to drone on as it works, Sonny turns on his heel and pulls one of the chairs in front of Barba’s desk closer to it before sitting. Leaned back in his own chair as if to give the illusion of being relaxed, Barba watches him like a hawk, one brow quirked and his jaw resting in his hand. Unamused and amused are blurring in his expressions, which is amusing in and of itself yet also a little disconcerting; it’s fitting, however, considering Barba’s general nature.

“Langan is good,” Sonny concedes, adjusting his vest as he settles. “But so’re you, Counsellor.”

Barba pinches the edge of the napkin between thumb and forefinger before tugging the donut closer, focus still on Carisi as he does. It’s giving him the distinct impression he’s fucked up, but as he sweats and racks his brain he can think of nothing he’s done to deserve harsh treatment. Other than, perhaps, the donut.

Barba gazes at him steadily, lips kept pressed together, before deciding remaining silent is too kind for him. “Buttering me up for something?” he questions, voice rough in a way Carisi has never heard it, and his gaze drifts away. He’s also never seen Rafael Barba glare at a donut, but there’s a first time for everything.

Carisi jolts, unable to hide his surprise at Barba’s tone. He’s not sure what he did to deserve such a response, or what could put Barba in this particular mood, but usually it’s best not to question it considering his fickleness.

“I don’t have anything to butter you up for,” he says, words accompanied by a helpless motioning of his hands. He can’t help but compare the action (palms up, fingers a soft sprawl, no gun, no weapon at all) to some of the more pliant perps he’s arrested, and that has him picturing Barba taking him by the wrist and cuffing him. He jerks his hands back, locking them in his lap the way he used to when he was being scolded by nuns. He has to clear his throat.

Barba’s countenance immediately twists into something exasperated but honestly amused, if not fond. Carisi is silently praying he doesn’t ask why he’s blushing, because he’s asking himself the same question.

“Burgers, detective.”

“Oh.” His voice cracks around the word, and it’s awkward on his tongue despite being such a small sound.

Barba’s brow twitches, his lips purse, and Carisi can’t understand why he’s wearing the focused mien he does when he’s working through evidence, or the crossword. It makes him nervous.

Leaning back, Barba rubs his jaw and adjusts his suspenders fitfully. “Right. The case-”

Realization hits Sonny hard, and he finds his hands gripping the arms of the chair as he leans forward. “Do you really wanna go out for burgers or would you prefer that bar you love so much?” The words leave him in a rush, and he closes his mouth with a click as soon as they’re out. His cheeks are terribly flushed, he can feel it.

Barba jerks his head up and stares, gaze oddly hard for the topic of conversation. It’s like they’re tiptoeing around something, the problem is Carisi doesn’t have a damn clue what they’re supposed to be avoiding here.

“I would like to go somewhere you’re comfortable.” Barba’s voice is softer - _lower_. It has Carisi’s stomach twisting.

Shifting in his chair, he glances at his hand where it’s still clutching at the leather. “Is, uh, something wrong? I mean….” He raises one shoulder jerkily, spreading his hands out.

“Carisi,” Barba cuts in, but his voice still has a softness to it even when it’s sharp enough to leave Carisi speechless, “I’m asking where you would like to go to dinner. Tonight, if you have the time.” Scanning Carisi’s face, he amends, “Tomorrow would work, too.”

Carisi takes over the job of glaring at the donut. Did he give Barba the wrong idea through breakfast and too many unnecessary visits? Or has the squad’s teasing finally caught his attention? That can’t be it, or Barba would have laughed in his face as soon as he suspected Carisi felt anything for him.

Facing Barba once more, Carisi is more confused to find his expression soft than he would be if Barba were glaring. It’s _beseeching_ or some other nonsense, poetic word that can capture the slight furrow of his brow and the way his eyes are too warm, too focused, too concerned. Carisi quickly looks back to the donut.

Barba would laugh in his face unless, he concludes, Barba had the same feelings. As soon as he’s thought it, his feet slip along the carpet, tugged closer to his body. Throat burning and palms clammy, Carisi is thoroughly humiliated by his own subconscious, if only because he knows how ridiculous a thought it is.

All of the teasing about his “crush” on Barba comes back to him, making his skin feel physically raw and his thoughts vulnerable, like Barba can hear them clearer than his words - like the teasing is fresh and new and matters. Maybe he’s so damn dense this is nothing, simply another example of his imagination getting away from him. Maybe Barba thinks he’s doing him some sort of favor by inviting him to dinner, or playing with him the way he plays with his food (slides a knife deep into the flesh of the salmon he orders on repeat then proceeds to cut clean through each inch before eating, not because he needs to, just because he likes the feel of it - Carisi is sure of it).

The image of Barba sliding a knife into his chest is disturbingly vivid in his mind’s eye.

“Uh, yeah,” he says, barely forcing it out. He’s not sure why he said anything, let alone a confirmation, as if his body is acting on its own. “Pretty sure I’m gonna have to find the perp and interview the vic today. Not a lot of time for grabbing dinner out, but also not a lot of time for making it myself. Assumed I’d be eating over paperwork both nights, honestly. But, yeah, I can - I can, uh, work something out tomorrow. Friday. Wait, tomorrow is Friday, right?”

The fact that Barba’s smirk is more a smile is enough to leave Carisi staring. He makes himself look away, though, and peer at the door. No one is going to come for him, and surely no one is filming him make a fool of himself. He looks back to Barba.

“What is it?” he sighs, the smile still playing around the edges of his lips but for the most part faded.

Carisi fumbles, tongue useless. He barely saves himself from saying something ridiculous ( _Like an episode of the Twilight Zone_ is what he thinks to respond with at first). Instead, he chokes out, “I, uh, I’m not sure if I’m - I dunno - misreading the-”

A phone rings, and he jerks, nearly tipping his chair back.

“ _Dios mío_ ,” Barba mutters, practically a fucking growl as he leans forward in his own chair as if he can catch Carisi before he damages anything.

The sound of his voice creeps and crawls down Carisi’s spine to curl in the pit of his belly and _stay_ there. Barba has never sounded like this, and Sonny has never responded like this; maybe it’s the situation. Sweat is beading on his brow, and he finds himself staring at the damn donut again. The movement of Barba’s hand just beyond it catches his attention, and immediately he’s enraptured by the gentle spread of his fingers against the wood of his desk.

Unable to handle the way his stomach is churning, he physically withdraws. He hits his elbow against the back of the chair before rearing out of it, cursing up a storm as he fishes his phone out of his pocket to answer it. “Hey,” he barks. Awkward silence meets him, and he curses under his breath, tilting the phone away in hopes of keeping her from hearing. He’s staring at the wall, unable to look at Barba knowing the he’ll be irritated. “Sorry, sorry. Need me back?”

“Yeah,” Amanda says, slow and hesitant. Carisi closes his eyes and wipes a hand over his brow. It’s hard not to say a prayer right then and there to thank a god he’s no longer sure exists.

“I’m really sorry. About that.”

“No, no. It’s fine. Really. Just, uh, get down here. We need to talk to Tabitha as soon as possible.”

“Right. Of course, of course.”

Amanda is silent on the other end, but Carisi is unwilling to hang up with Barba’s gaze heavy on his back, his throat tightening in response. There’s no way out of this one, and he knows it already, but he clings to his phone and silently pleads for Amanda to say some magic word, freeing him from this hell.

“Carisi,” she says, slow, “is something wrong?”

He clears his throat but it doesn’t help; he shakes his head sharply before he remembers Rollins can’t see him. “No,” he bursts out, then says it again, sympathetic - apologetic. “I’ll be right there,” he adds, sharper again without intention. He hopes it doesn’t come off as if he’s trying to raise his voice for Barba to hear, though that’s exactly what he’s doing.

“Alright…. See you then.”

She hangs up, and Carisi holds the phone to his ear a minute longer. When he slips it back into his pocket and gathers the courage to meet Barba’s gaze, he finds more of that twisted mix of amusement and annoyance on Barba’s face than ever before. Barba could yell or laugh at him and Carisi wouldn’t be surprised either way.

He opens his mouth to speak, and immediately shuts it.

Barba leans back, eyes dark, and waves vaguely to the door. Carisi is itching to go, but he finds his feet too heavy to move. When it becomes clear he’s not budging, Barba’s lips twitch upwards though he slips a hand over his mouth to cover it. “Dinner. Tomorrow. Ask Rollins if she can join us. Fin, too; I assume you’ll see him sometime before then. I’ll ask after Liv.”

Blush crawling down his throat, Carisi nods. With that, he bolts, slipping out of the office with a halfhearted wave to Carmen. Yet, like a fish on a wire, he whirls around and comes right back to her desk.

She moves to stand, stopping herself partway and shifting to sink into the chair only to change her mind and rise fully. “What’s wrong?”

He turns his face away from her, biting the inside of his cheek. Should he say anything? If he does, Carmen is likely to laughingly tell Barba about it as soon as he leaves, and the resulting embarrassment added to everything else might be the end of Sonny. Despite this anxiety, he looks back to Carmen, more determined than before. “Did Barba sleep here last night?”

The tension in her expression melts away, replaced with this easy, soft smile that has Carisi relaxing with her. “Always worrying about someone else.” She shakes her head. “No, I don’t let him. If I could, I’d keep you from doing it. Now, you go help someone who needs it and get some proper sleep yourself, Carisi,” she says, swaying closer.

Before he can go, her hand finds his cheek; it’s light and her warmth seeps into him. Brow furrowed yet body lax, he lets her pull him in, turn his face, and press a kiss to his cheek. “Stay safe.”

The shame that was already beginning to shift into a dark, crushing frustration dissipates. He doesn’t know why Carmen’s eyes have gone soft or her smile tranquil, hand shifting over to expose her palm as if to invite him to hold it, but he thinks whatever it is this is her way of saying it’s okay.

He lays his hand over hers, still against his face. “I will. Don’t worry.”

 _Thank you_ is stuck in his throat as he gently withdraws and heads back out the door.

He made a fool of himself, but Carmen’s shock of affection lessens the blow. Still, playing through the conversation, he balls his hands into fists while wishing this would slide off his back as easily as everything else does.

 

* * *

 

 

The passenger door opens, and Carisi jumps in his seat, fingers curling tight around the wheel in his hands. Dragging his tongue over his teeth, he hopes he doesn’t look like the “lost puppy” Amanda has described him as.

Rollins slips in, coffee in hand. She takes one look at him and her jaw goes slack in a way that’s comical. “What the hell happened in the hour you were gone? Look like you saw a ghost.” She puts the cup in the holder between them, and her hand lingers there like she wants to reach out to him but isn’t sure she should.

Giving her a tired look, Carisi slides his hands over the steering wheel, letting his fingers hit the spoke, and doesn’t answer. As soon as she has the door closed, he pulls away from the curb and heads towards Murray Hill. Even in the traffic, it’s not going to take long, the apartment being approximately four miles away, at most. Carisi’s torn between relief and frustration, wishing he had longer to talk to Amanda or to think.

“What is it?” she persists, but her voice is gentle. “Did something…. Was it Barba?”

Fingers curling tighter around the wheel, he drags his teeth over his lip. It’s painfully obvious now. They think he’s a lovestruck fool. They think he’s so damn infatuated he can’t separate it from his work life. Does Barba see him like this, too?

“Sonny,” she begins, alarmed by something she sees in him, but doesn’t continue, leaving him to fill in the silence like she knows there’s nothing she can say.

Hands relaxing, he leans back in his seat; he hadn’t realized he’d reared forward at all. “My head is killing me. So’s my elbow. I accidentally hit it on the chair in Barba’s office.” He laughs, not looking at her, and it’s a bitter sound. She shifts slightly, moving toward him as if opening herself to him. Sonny wishes he could hug her. “How do you want to play this?”

Humming, Amanda lets herself relax back into the seat. “Let me handle the girl, you take the dad. Seymour mentioned Tabitha was having an easier time talking to her about what happened than him.”

“I can imagine.”

“I can’t help but worry, y’know?” She sighs, frustrated with herself. “She seemed to think Price might be angry with her. Never know what you’re about to step into, but this is something else.”

Blinking away the memory of Gracie’s tearstained face and her rushed explanation of how she ended up with the panties, Carisi resists the urge to take Amanda’s hand. He resists the urge to think about Carmen’s careful touch. He can’t, however, suppress the memory of Barba smiling ever so slightly. Luckily, it calms him instead of making him embarrassed all over again as he feared.

“She reported the rape of his little girl without his permission. Yeah, he’s probably gonna be angry, but you and I both know he’ll cool right off with a little Southern charm and the knowledge we’re gonna get the bastard that touched his kid.” Carisi fidgets in his seat, wishing he had at least one more hour of sleep to make it through a day like this. “Don’t go getting cold feet on me, now.”

It works: Amanda smiles at him in that adoring, frustrated way of hers, and she doesn’t say another word about it.

“Southern charm,” she repeats, sighing.

“Southern charm.”

* * *

 

 

“Two-forty?” Carisi confirms, gazing at the building in front of them with some confusion. It’s classy and clean, standing free instead of packed between any other buildings, which makes it appear all the more luxurious to Carisi.

“Parc East Apartments,” Rollins mutters, tying her jacket in the front with a flourish. She left her coffee in the car, he notes, and he frowns. He should have stolen a sip when he had the chance. “Why so surprised?”

“Dunno. Just expected Nazis to live somewhere else.”

“KKK.”

“KKK, Nazis - is there even a difference?”

Amanda considers it, her gaze trained on the curling script above the entrance to the apartment buildings as her mouth twists. “The lines seem to be blurring as of late, huh?”

Carisi turns.

“You didn’t hear, did you?” The furrow of his brow is answer enough. “I wasn’t supposed to, either. Just walked in at the wrong time while the Lieu and Barba were talking. He’s been receiving more threats.”

Carisi’s ribs seem to curl tight around his lungs and heart, making it hard to breathe. Each beat of his blood presses against his skin and roars in his ears. The last time he felt like this, there was a gun to his head.

His attention narrows to Amanda, standing before him with her throat shifting as she swallows. Her eyes sweep over his face, assessing. Everything else is a little fuzzy - unimportant.

He can’t find any words; it’s a relief when she continues on her own. “Think it’s Nazis. The lines are blurring,” she repeats, quieter.

It hurts to swallow, and when his tongue drags over his lips he finds his skin dry as bone. “Why him?”

There are a million other questions he should be asking: Does Barba have anyone covering him? Have they found the real source of the threats? Why did nobody say anything? Why did _Amanda_ not say something? But that’s all that comes out.

Amanda’s casts her gaze around as if searching for an answer, her chest heaves, teeth bared in a wince. “I dunno, Sonny.” She sounds put on the spot, practically helpless yet angry to be put there. “He’s Latino. He’s more successful than them. He puts people like them away. I dunno.”

Carisi drags his fingers through his hair, letting it fall out of the slicked way he wears it, then sweeps his hand over it again to messily put it back together. “Right. Not much reason to any of it, huh?”

“Hate usually doesn’t come from a place of reason,” she supplies, soft.

He presses his lips together, head tilting. “We should focus on this, for now.”

She’s more than happy to agree.

Inside, Carisi glances around, taking in the simple decor and the photos on the wall. There’s an uneasiness plaguing him (making his chest too tight, his pulse too loud, his skin too hot), and it takes him a minute to realize he’s waiting for someone to pop out and reveal this is a cover for something much more sinister. Wrapping his head around the fact that bigots live their lives just like everyone else isn’t exactly easy, especially with Barba still on his mind.

“Hey there,” Rollins says, voice as sweet and easy as a summer day. She’s already working her magic, striding to the counter to bat her lashes at the man sitting behind it. “Could you tell me which apartment the Prices stay in?” She slips her badge across the counter. “They’re not in any trouble, of course. Me and my partner are just here to follow up about a robbery Mr. Price witnessed the other day.”

Barely a minute later and they’re in the elevator, heading to floor six. Gracie had told them the apartment number, but the way she said it (halting and with her brows furrowed) made Sonny consider if she was lying. Apparently it made Amanda think the same. But she wasn’t, and for that he feels oddly proud of her.

“When are you and Vega getting that coffee?” Amanda’s tone is far too forced to come off as casual, though it’s obvious that’s what she was aiming for.

Carisi shoots her an unamused look, but it makes her cool facade crack with laughter.

“You know you can tell me anything, right?” she adds out of the blue.

Turning, Carisi takes in the tightness of her jaw and the knit of her brows. “Of course. And you know you can tell me anything, too, yeah?”

Rolling her eyes, she huffs like Carisi has said the stupidest thing she’s ever heard. “ _Of course_. I just mean-” She falters, motioning with her hands at him, as if that will tell him everything he needs to know. “What about that girl you were seeing?”

Carisi has to bite back a groan. He turns his face away from her to hide his disdain and rub the bridge of his nose. “I don’t have a girlfriend.”

“Really, Carisi?” she bites. “The bra? On your computer? The-”

Before the conversation can continue, the elevator lurches to a stop. Carisi’s back is rigid, and the ache to the right of his spine is all the worse for it; he must have a tight muscle or something. The moments before the door groans open are painful, but as soon as Carisi is slipping out Amanda takes him by the elbow. He bites back a wince, realizing he must have bruised it earlier.

“Sonny,” she murmurs, apologetic, “I’m sorry for - prying.”

The frustration that was brewing within him chills over, and he lets the tension drain from his shoulders. “I’m serious,” he says, facing her as the elevator doors close behind them. “I don’t have a girlfriend. I’m not seeing anyone. When I said it was a friend, I wasn’t lying.”

She doesn’t look convinced, but she does look guilty. Her nod is barely there, but it’s enough.

“Can we focus on this?”

“Yeah. Yeah, let’s go.”

The walk to the Prices’ apartment is blessedly quick. Carisi shares a look with Rollins and they switch positions, her falling in step behind him as he steps closer to the door, knocking roughly. There is no movement from within to indicate someone coming; Carisi knocks again.

“Mr. Price, my name is Sonny Carisi,” he calls through the door. “I’m a detective with the NYPD. If you’re there-”

There’s a loud noise on the other side of the door followed by cursing. Carisi’s hand hovers over his gun, and his eyes meet Rollins’.

A voice calls back, “Just give me a minute! I’m coming, I’m coming!”

The door opens enough for a man’s face to become visible cheeks flushed and eyes wild as they flicker between Carisi and Rollins. Carisi shows him his badge, focused on the way Price’s lips tighten around the edges. He starts scratching at his wrist and doesn’t stop.

“Let me get the chain.” The door closes, the scratch of the chain can be heard, and then Price is standing before them, pallid and withdrawn, hand still rubbing.

He’s in flannel pajama bottoms and a stained Mets shirt. He’s lean but muscled, and his face boyish behind his glasses. He appears shaken, yet his jaw is locked and the tendons along his neck strained. There’s something young about him; he looks like a teenager caught sneaking out, not a grown man.

“Why are you here?”

Carisi swallows around the lump that has formed in his throat. “An assault was reported-”

“Is this about Ray?” His fingers flex around the frame of the door before he leans against it heavily. “You listen- You-” He’s shaking now, voice wrecked. “That bastard deserved it. I refuse to-to be pushed around by-”

Carisi furrows his brow and glances at Rollins, who looks just as puzzled. “Tomlinson,” Carisi confirms.

Price sucks on the inside of his lower lip, still trembling. “Thought he wouldn’t be pressing charges. What happened to that? Huh?”

The look they share now is far less furtive, but Carisi is quick to turn back to Price. “I’m sorry?”

Brows knitted, Price shifts his weight from foot to foot. “I- I’m sorry, why are you here?”

Rollins steps forward, hesitant. “Mr. Price, we’re here because a _sexual_ assault was reported,” she says, voice so low Carisi is sure no one else can possibly hear.

Price’s face goes from hard to crushed in a heartbeat. “Oh. I- Right.” He stares at the floor between them, blinking rapidly. “The assault,” he repeats, hollow. “Right. Come in.”

Price steps aside and motions them in.

Glancing at Rollins once more, wishing there was some way for him to stay between her and Price at all times, Carisi steps inside. The door opens to a large, open room. Carisi steps around the dining room table, eyeing the other doors in the room. The one to his right leads to the kitchen, which is cramped to say the least, but the other two are shut. A television, a couch, and a couple of chairs take up the other side of the room. It’s empty, otherwise. No fifteen year old in sight.

Price mumbles something about the living room. Sonny moves in that general direction without leaving Rollins entirely. She smiles prettily at Price as she enters the apartment; when her back is to him, she locks gazes with Carisi and inclines her head slightly. He turns and saunters over to the couch, resting his hand on the back.

There’s an array of pamphlets on one of the cushions. One is titled _Dealing with Teenage Pregnancy_ and another is a lurid, pink thing with cartoon renditions of motherhood and the words “ _You can overcome these myths and learn to be a great mom!_ ” printed along the top. Carisi’s heart aches.

“I, uh- I’m sorry about the mess,” Price mutters, choked as if he’s about to cry. Carisi finds himself unable to meet his eyes as he hurries around the couch to gather the pamphlets. “I assume you heard from… from….” He shoves the papers in the coffee table’s drawer, hands shaking as he does. “Gracie,” he chokes. “Gracie told you.”

“She’s looking out for your daughter.”

Price shrugs jerkily, and rubs at his eyes.

Amanda swallows, smoothing her hands over her thighs, and takes a seat on the couch. “Mr. Price, we need to talk to both you and your daughter. Tabitha, right?”

“Tabby. Tabby Cat,” he corrects, jerking his chin as if in challenge. As soon as his face hardens, it softens once more, transforming him from lost boy to angry man and back again. Covering his eyes with his hand as if he can block it out, he shakes his head. “She’s- Christ, I don’t know what’s gotten into me. I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“No, no - it’s alright.” Her eyes slip to meet Carisi’s before she focuses once more; each time her attention strays from him, a weight falls upon Carisi’s chest as if he’s been shot there. One second of distraction could mean death in this job, and despite this man being the father of the vic, Carisi can’t help but respond like they’re in the room with another perp.

“She’s in the bedroom,” Price continues. “My bedroom. Hasn’t been able to sleep on her own since this whole thing started. Been sneaking into my bed the way she used to when her mother was still alive.

“I didn’t realize. What type of father doesn’t realize?” he babbles, voice strained and rising as his fingers curl tight around the one pamphlet still in his hand. “It’s a nightmare. I never thought this could happen to… to someone so _good_. My little Tabby. She doesn’t deserve this she’s so good. God, she is.

“She’s been having these- Christ, she’s been having these fucking cramps or something. I don’t even know. Fuck, her mother never had this issue. I don’t know what the fuck to do. That’s why I need Gracie around. Somebody to help when I’m helpless to.”

He breaks off with a groan, stumbling to the side to collapse on the couch next to Amanda. She slips closer, resting a hand on his shoulder to rub gentle circles there. “This is the first step to getting her the help she needs. We can get her into counselling and help you work through-”

“I can’t.” He bows over, hiding his face in his hands. “I know what you’re here for. If you go after Tomlinson, then you’re going to need my baby girl to appear in court or testify or- Fuck, I don’t know how this shit works. I can’t let her do that.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Carisi pipes up, accidentally cutting Amanda off. “There’s something called a video deposition. We can record her giving her testimony and play it for the jury. She would never have to face them, or Tomlinson.”

Price peers at him with red eyes, the lines etched into his forehead making him appear older. “What about her privacy? What if her name gets out? Christ, you know she’d be ruined if they-” He pauses, gaze slipping away. “Gracie didn’t happen to tell you about….”

“It’s okay.” Amanda squeezes his shoulder. “You’re members of the KKK. We know.”

Price side-eyes her, mouth a thin line and gaze untrusting.

“Like I told Gracie: You’re trying to protect our race. We understand, Mr. Price, and we respect what you’re doing,” Carisi persists, forcing as much sincerity as he can muster into his voice. “We aren’t going to get you or your daughter into any trouble.”

Amanda’s smile is weak but it will likely come off as somber to a stranger. “We’ll take care of her, and you.”

His focus is on the carpet between his feet. His breathing has evened out and the blotchy flush around his cheeks has died down. Pity and repulsion seem to be equally appropriate, but in the end pity wins out, the thought of Tabitha tipping the scales for Carisi.

“If I charge Tomlinson,” he says slowly and fidgets, sweeping a hand through his hair then gripping the back of his own neck, “Spalding is going to-”

“Dad?”

Standing in the nearest doorway is a slight, bird-like girl, still childishly plump in the face and wispy-haired. Her stomach is swollen with the life growing inside her, and her frail hands are clasped protectively around it. She looks pathetically tiny, and her eyes are wet like she has been crying and she could start again any minute.

“Honey, these are, um- Well, these are the police.”

Her face grows paler still, and her hands spread out over her stomach as if to shield the child there. “Am I in trouble?” she whispers.

“Oh - Oh, honey, of course not.” Price stands but awkwardly hovers right where he is instead of going to her, as if he doesn’t know how to help even now.

“Hey,” Carisi says lowly and steps around the chair standing between them. “Are you Tabby?”

Bottom lip caught between her teeth, she inclines her head.

“My name is Sonny,” he smiles, kneeling a short distance from her in order to avoid crowding her. “I’m a detective. You know what that means, right?” He holds out his hand.

She carefully takes it, shaking it delicately, as if afraid he’ll take her hand, pull her in, and hurt her. He can’t blame her. “You stop crimes.”

“Yep. Put the bad guys where they belong.”

“In jail?” she whispers, breathless as if afraid to say it.

“In jail. Where they can never hurt anyone ever again.”

Staring at her hand in his own, Tabby rubs circles on her stomach. Her teeth continue to work her lip as her eyes grow distant. Her skin is clammy; she must truly be sick with this pregnancy, and the image of her feverish and curled in on herself is easy to conjure. Carisi struggles to keep himself from looking away, his stomach churning as it all sinks in.

She’s young, but not so young he’d still consider her a child, and yet there’s something disturbingly innocent about her. Carisi takes it in stride, noting it for later.

“You’re talking about Mr. Tomlinson, right?”

Carisi squeezes her hand gently, the respect with which she still refers to her rapist striking him right between his finely constructed shields. He has to clear his throat to speak, swallowing around the lump of emotions that has built up there. “Is he the one who forced you? Who-” He stops himself, closing his eyes so he can’t look at her distended stomach.

“I understand what you’re asking, sir.” She screws her eyes shut, tears spilling across her cheeks. “Yes, sir, he did- He made me-” She chokes, lips trembling. “He made me have sex.”

“It’s okay, Tabby. It’s going to be okay,” he promises in soft, urgent whispers, but it’s not something he can ever truly ensure, especially in this case.

The tears keep coming until she’s trembling with each sob, her face going from wan to pink and damp. She pulls at Carisi’s arm until she has his hand clasped to her stomach like she’s forgotten she has a hold of him. Trepidation turns to panic as his skin makes contact with the cotton of her dress, the pink flowers twisted as they're forced to stretch around her growth, mockingly bright. Beneath his touch, her stomach is firm in a way he’s familiar with, but small in a way he’s not. He’s witnessed many women in his life bear children, but this is like a shadow or a twisted parody of each experience he’s had so far.

She covers her face with her free hand, the other trembling but firm around his own. “He’s the one,” she hiccups, muffled by her own palm, “made me pregnant. I-I know that women who are really raped can’t get pregnant. But I swear! Sir, I didn’t want it!”

Carisi’s breath leaves him, and he’s speechless. How does someone respond when faced with this horror?

Rollins steps closer, and her nearness brings him back to reality.

“You know,” he says, shifting to rub his thumb over her knuckles, “I’ve been doing this job a while now. I can tell you, without a single doubt, that sometimes women who have been assaulted do get pregnant.”

Her fingers slip lower, curling into a fist against her lips. Her stare is like a pin right through his chest. “You’re sure? But, I thought….”

“I know. But I promise it’s true. It happens.”

She swallows, her face opening as if with this one reassurance he’s taken the weight of the world from her shoulders. As relief washes over her in tangible waves, the pressure on his own chest grows, his grief for her building as her own stress fades.

Price finally crosses the room and pulls her into his arms, brushing back her hair and murmuring softly against her forehead. “Tabby Cat, it’s alright. It’s alright, baby girl. I’m here to protect you.”

Carisi slips his hand from between them. He stands and takes a step back, needing the space to breathe; it allows him the illusion of being solely an onlooker, and not a participant.

Tabby appears even smaller against the curve of her father’s body. Carisi thinks about how his sister had looked while pregnant, her hands more delicate against her taut belly and her skin bright with her joy. In comparison, Tabby looks like a ghost; under the circumstances, he’s not sure what else could be expected.

She’s babbling brokenly, mostly nonsensical and too quiet to hear. “He said, Daddy,” she hiccups, and fades out again. Voice raising, she says, “He’ll take it from you.”

“Tabby-”

“No! He will! Daddy, he will!”

Carisi lurches forward. “Wait, wait - Tabitha, what did you just say?” he asks, taking Price by the shoulder to create some room between them. “I’m sorry, honey, but I need to know.”

Even as Price pulls away from her, Tabitha keeps her forehead pressed to his chest to obscure her face. Price clears his throat, hand smoothing along her back. “Tomlinson said that if she told anyone, I’d….” He squints in an attempt to stop his tears, his hand moving along her spine with more vigor, as if he can brush away the pain. His lips part around a breath, meaning to continue, but Tabby presses herself closer and he goes silent. His gaze is pleading, as if he’s looking for a way out.

“Tabby,” Amanda murmurs, brushing past Carisi and gently pressing him back with a hand to his shoulder; only then does his own hand fall away from Price’s back. “Tabby, can I talk to you for just a minute, sweetie?”

Nodding jerkily against her father’s sternum, Tabitha reluctantly unwinds her arms from his sides and the tangle of his shirt. “I’m starting to get cramps again,” she mumbles, drained. “I think I need to lay down. But I can still talk, ma’am.”

“How about I help you to the bedroom?” Amanda offers, gently brushing the wisps of hair from Tabitha’s damp forehead when she faces her.

“I’ll get you some water,” Price decides, and extracts himself from Tabitha’s hold entirely.

Without him there, she sways, her wet eyes growing distant as if she’s lost once more. Looking at her makes Carisi’s chest hurt.

Rollins is gentle as she touches the back of Tabitha’s head; Carisi is reminded of how her hand looks when cradling Jesse close, fingers playing in the downy fluff of her hair. Tabitha tips her face upwards, her hands finding the swell of her belly like they have no better place, and looks at Amanda with the same helplessness her father shot at Carisi not moments ago.

“Have you ever had a baby, ma’am?” she croaks. “That’s not too rude to ask, is it?” She looks to Carisi like he’ll be the one to say, and it has his insides prickling with something he can’t name.

Does she know what to do without a man telling her? As soon as it occurs to him, Carisi wants to follow Price into the kitchen and shake him. But he doesn’t.

“I have a little girl. Her name’s Jesse. She’s just a baby, but she has pretty, blue eyes just like you. Pretty nose, too.”

Tabitha’s smile has the ache between Carisi’s shoulders easing, but it only lasts a moment, quickly replaced by another tight pout. “Did you ever get sick? Like, with cramps or anything like that.”

Amanda’s expression softens. “Yeah, sweetie, I did. Carisi,” she says, jerking a thumb in his direction and laughing softly, “had to take me to the hospital. I was being real stubborn and didn’t want to go. Jesse might not be here if he hadn’t helped me.”

“Oh.” She looks at Carisi, considering.

He smiles but it’s unnatural on his face: Too sharp, too weak, too cold.

“Do you have any kids?”

He shakes his head. “A niece, though. Love her to pieces.”

“Yeah, Tabby, we’ve both had our share of experiences with babies. If you need any help, we’re here for you, okay?”

Rubbing at her stomach distractedly, Tabitha turns her face to the kitchen even as she nods.

Carisi glances in that direction, lips twisting. “Want me to go check on your dad?” He tries to sound calm and upbeat, but he doubts he succeeds.

“No,” she says quickly, tense with a fear that has Carisi frozen to the spot, trying to understand what could make her eyes wide and wild. “No,” she repeats, face turning to the floor. “He needs space - that’s all.”

“Oh. Alright.”

Amanda is looking at him in a way that has his stomach sinking further than it already was. Does this make her imagine the same horrors his own mind is running through? Judging by her countenance, whatever she’s thinking must be even worse. Or maybe Carisi is simply incapable of comprehending the struggles of motherhood under the best of circumstances, let alone these, so Rollins has a million more fears to consider.

“I think I’m gonna be sick.” Tabitha’s jerky movements and the massaging of her stomach take on a very different meaning, and Amanda croons to her, already slipping her fingers into the girl’s hair to hold it as she turns back the way she came, disappearing into the bedroom.

Carisi stands there looking after them even as he hears the wet rush of Tabby’s sick in the toilet and Rollin’s lilting, honeyed tone (the kind he’s convinced is singular to mothers).

She has no mother, or father, here to take her to the hospital or to take her to the police immediately upon learning of her assault. She needs her father holding her hair back in place of Rollins, and needed him to be at the station in place of Gracie. Carisi balls his fists by his sides, rolls his shoulders, and closes his eyes in hopes this righteous rage will flee from him.

When his ears are no longer ringing and his cheeks burning, he turns and follows the path Price took to the kitchen. His hands are trembling the way they did the first time he was on the scene of a homicide to see the wet of a woman’s blood drying across the walls and smell her perfume even as her body began to stiffen and fade.

After that day, he went home and cried in the shower until the water went cold and couldn’t keep down even tea, the image of the woman’s arms curled around her middle even in death haunting him.

In the thin space provided between the counters, Price is sitting leaned against the cupboards, head tilted back and his eyes closed. He appears as if he’s sleeping, calm as if his daughter is not vomiting in the other room.

All of the sympathy he held for Price is gone now, and Carisi barges into the room, still struggling to stifle the heat in his blood. “Hey,” he barks, doing everything he can to resist pulling him into the other room. Price jumps, scrambling to his feet and reaching for the cup of ice water he’s left on the counter, smearing its sweat along the dark granite. “Has Tabitha seen a doctor?”

“What? Yeah, yeah. Course she has.”

“Why is she having such bad cramps?” He steps closer, stopping short of cornering Price against the sink entirely.

Price rubs the back of his neck, sighing. “They said it was normal.”

“How long ago was that? When did they say it was normal?”

He flails, tongue-tied, only to be saved by Rollins pushing into the kitchen along with them. One look, and Carisi knows it’s not good.

“Mr. Price, when did Tabitha last get a checkup?” Her words rushed - urgent - and they have Carisi’s heartbeat roaring in his ears.

Price’s knuckles are white where he grips the counter. “Oh god,” he chokes. “What- I don’t understand-”

“Mr. Price,” she repeats, stepping further into the room. Her jaw has that harsh set that it gets when she’s angry. “I think your daughter may have a bladder infection, if not a kidney infection. She needs to be taken to the hospital.”

Price wails, low and urgent, bowing over to press his head against the granite. “No. No, no, no. Not- No. It’s too much. This is- It can’t.”

Rollins meets Carisi’s gaze and shakes her head, her lips pressed together until they shift to white.

* * *

 

 

The waiting room is blessedly empty, at least when compared to how it is typically filled to the brim with bleeding, crying, and sickly bodies. There’s enough room for Carisi to breathe, and more than enough room for him to keep Richard Price away from the world, just for a few moments.

His skin has taken on a deathly, ashen color, sweat drawing out the harsh lines of his bones. He still appears boyish, despite it all, and it adds to Carisi’s discomfort each time he faces him. Still in his pajamas and stained shirt, he seems even younger than he is, and it’s odd to stand over him like this, with the tears still trickling over his cheeks.

“I told her mother I’d take care of her.” His voice is unfeeling, as if this fact means nothing to him. “Had her when I was just a kid. I didn’t know what I was doing, but at least I had her mother. Her name was Becka. Tabby’s her spitting image. Used to hate looking at Tabby because of it, but that’s nothing now that she’s….” His throat bobs.

Carisi lets him talk, but he finds himself wishing again to talk to Barba and ask about this. Usually he turns to his mother or even Amanda when his moral compass is shaken, but this makes him ache for Barba’s offhanded, cold way of reassuring others. He needs someone to roll their eyes at his stupidity, and bring him back to earth with a bite, not the sweet obliviousness of his mother or the apparent worry plaguing Amanda.

“I love Tabitha, I really do. She’s my baby. I’d do anything to protect her.” He wipes at the tears wetting his cheeks roughly. “When she told me what happened I went to Tomlinson. Asked him,” he rasps, “just what he did to my little girl.”

Carisi pushes off the wall, standing straight. Before him, Price is a thousand miles away, arms crossed tight over his chest as if it’s enough to shield him from everything that’s happening. It’s more pathetic than anything else, and Carisi finds himself struggling.

He should have asked Barba about what he does in these situations, or Fin, or Amanda. Anyone, really, because right now he’s lost, pulled between two sets of morals he’s held to be self-evident since he was young and his mother first explained what the KKK was, after they watched _A Time to Kill_ on the little television set in her bedroom.

“Have they taught you about the Constitution and all that, Sonny?” When he told her no, she’d pursed her lips but nodded like she didn’t expect anything different. “We’re all equal. The Lord made us all sorts of different colors, but he didn’t make any of us better than anyone else. That’s why pride is a sin and humility a virtue. The Ku Klux Klan is all pride, and all sin.”

Pushing the memory of his mother’s words, perfume, and heartbroken expression from his mind, Carisi focuses on Price once more. His fingers are twisting in the sleeves of his tee and he keeps his lip trapped between his teeth, weathering it roughly. Carisi shifts where he stands, biting the inside of his cheek.

Thinking about how Tabby had shivered and shook as Rollins gently eased her out of the bathroom, Carisi squares his shoulders and faces Price once more. “I need you to tell me what happened. Your little girl deserves justice. You and I both know that. Tell me what happened, and I’ll take care of the rest.”

Price moves, pinching the bridge of his nose before obscuring his eyes once more. “It was May. The twelfth of May. I didn’t even realize…. She told me she had a cold and locked herself away in her room. Next night she was in bed with me, telling me she had a nightmare and balling. I didn’t even begin to suspect anything when she just… kept showing up at midnight with her blanket and tears and-” He covers his mouth, his own tears falling.

“I’m falling apart,” he confesses, voice hush. “I’m falling apart.”

Gritting his teeth, Carisi’s fingers close around Price’s wrist before he can stop himself, his grip cruel. “You’ve gotta pull yourself together for your little girl. She needs you. This isn’t about you. Imagine how she feels right now. C’mon. Tell me.”

“Yeah- Yeah, you’re right. You’re-” Price takes a shaky breath, nodding. “July. It was at the beginning of July, and Anna - that’s one of the other parishioners - called me and told me she thought something was wrong with Tabby. That’s…. God, it’s fucking embarrassing, but that’s the first time I realized something was wrong.

“Ten days later, Anna calls and asks why Tabby isn’t going to church anymore. I-I’m a busy man, detective, I don’t have the time to go with her and- Christ, I didn’t realize until then. I found out she’d been hiding out in the local library instead of going to church. Which- That’s fine, y’know? But I asked her why, because my baby girl is so faithful - she really is.”

He drags his hands through his hair, pulling. His chin trembles and the flutter of his pulse is visible.

“Woah,” Carisi mutters stupidly, hand moving to Price’s shoulder, his own pulse ticking up a beat in response. “It’s okay. Deep breaths.”

“She burst into tears,” he continues as if Carisi hasn’t spoken, voice cracking and trembling. “She said he-he made her. Said- She said- She kept apologizing. Kept saying she was sorry. That she never meant to-” He groans, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes. “She never meant to _sin_.”

Carisi’s nose wrinkles, and he squeezes his shoulder. He wants to reassure him or promise justice once more, but his mouth is so dry he doesn’t think he can speak at all. Even if he could, he’s not sure anything he’d say would be helpful. Inside, everything is hollowed out and raw as if he’s given all he has to give already.

This case is getting to him with startling ease.

“Sorry, sorry. It’s….” He bites his lip, crossing his arms over his chest once more. “The next day, I went to Spalding.”

Carisi pulls out his notepad. “And who’s that?”

Price laughs humorlessly, looking to the side. “He’s the super of 201 on East 35th. That’s where - meetings are held. Held by Bryson. Bryson Spalding. And the owner of the building also owns mine.” Looking at Carisi morosely, he mutters, “He’s in the same group as us. The owner, Chesley Grant.”

“Right, right.” Carisi takes down the address.

“I went to Spalding as soon as I heard what happened, because he’s always there. He was supposed to be there when Tabby was there that day. So was Winona - she’s another member. Promised to look out for Tabitha that day. I don’t know what happened, but when I asked Spalding he-” Price breaks into yet another bitter laugh, hands trembling. “He said I should get her an abortion,” he snarls, smiling vacantly through it.

Carisi’s stomach churns.

“Can you fucking believe it?” he seethes. “An abortion. We’ve held protests against that shit, and he said it like it was the only real option. Like the fool I am, I went home after that. Just accepted it like that was enough. A good enough answer.”

“It’s not,” Carisi supplies emphatically. It’s far past the point of an abortion being viable, but fear clutches at his heart as he knows what people do in times like these: Stupid, painful, life-threatening shit like get their underage daughters illegal abortions too far into a pregnancy. “ _It’s not_.”

“And you know what I did? I went home and I actually considered it.” This time, his laugh is shattered, and more tears come. Carisi can’t recall being around a father of a vic who cried so freely. “I couldn’t make a decision so I waited. A week later, I ended up talking to Gracie and she told me what she saw. That’s when I found out it was Ray.”

“Tabby didn’t tell you?”

He dips his head and jerks his chin to the side. “No. Too scared.”

“Because he threatened her.”

“Because he threatened _me_.”

Carisi doesn’t let his horror show, shoving his shaking hands into his pockets.

“He told her he’d tell my boss about me. Get us thrown out of our apartment.”

“ _Christ_.”

“Yeah. It was… ugly. As soon as Gracie let it slip, I just saw red. I couldn’t control myself. It was like I lost the next day.” His gaze drifts to the floor. “I’m ashamed of what I did.”

Licking his lips, Carisi ducks his head, looking at Price beneath his lashes. “You can tell me. We aren’t here to arrest you and that won’t change.”

He lets his breath out through his nose. “They were holding another meeting that day.”

“Yeah?”

“I went. I knew Tommy would be there. It was- You’ve gotta understand, it was like I wasn’t there in my own body. I know that’s not an excuse it just-”

“Hey, it’s alright. Just tell me what happened. It’s okay.”

Price drags his hand through his hair. “As soon as I saw him, it all went black. Next thing I know, I’m being dragged off him and he’s being held back. The boys don’t know what happened, just see me wailing on him out of the blue so they drag me to another room. Spalding comes to talk to me and… and Spalding comes in.”

There’s a sour taste filling Sonny’s mouth and yet his throat is too dry for him to swallow.

“Says…. He said that my boss will ruin me if I go to the police. That they’ll take care of it all in their own way. Promises Tomlinson will be taken care of. Swears.” He sighs, blinking rapidly.

Carisi grimaces. “Let me guess….”

“Nothing happened. I let that go on for a fucking week.”

“That’s when Gracie came to us?”

He nods.

Carisi closes his eyes and finds he’s so worn he can’t stand the thought of opening them again. This shouldn’t be getting to him. He’s had underage vics, pregnant vics, and seen so much more; this shouldn’t push him so close to breaking.

A hand finds his shoulder, and he jumps, twisting around to find Rollins. She’s looking at Price intently, her reluctance tangible. “Mr. Price, the doctor finished the examination. She needs to see you.”

Growing paler still, Price shudders like Rollins has delivered a shock to his system. Wordlessly, he shuffles past, slow as if underwater.

As soon as he’s around the corner, no longer in their sight, Carisi lists to the side, bumping gently into Rollins. Her expression holds the same worry it did when she told him about Barba earlier today, and he may truly collapse if she keeps looking at him like that.

“I think I’ve got it from here. You should go home,” she decides. He side-eyes her, head tilting. It earns an eyeroll in response. “C’mon, Carisi. You haven’t been on your game all day. Go home.”

“I want to stay just a little longer,” he says, pleading. For once, he knows she’s right, and he can’t get out of it this time around. He’s too tired to put up a serious fight, though he sincerely wants to despite knowing very well it would be best to listen. “You’re right. I’m not much help today, but I gotta stay a little longer.”

Amanda’s fingers worm between his own, squeezing, and just like that they’re gone. The contact, however fleeting, is enough for Sonny to get a taste of her warmth, but it only whets his thirst. It’s as if something has cracked open in his chest, an ache growing there that can only be soothed through more. He wants to go to her apartment, bypass her livingroom, and bury himself in her bed, pressed against her side until the night has passed along with the next day. Exhaustion has his knees weak and his head throbbing.

He’s not sure if she reaches out to him, or him to her, but her hand is back in his. She doesn’t look as worried as he thinks she should, even when her hand falls away once more, and he knows his expression conveys just how bereft he feels. “Alright. Just a little longer,” she decides, firm. She’s interpreting his expression the wrong way, and at this point he has to question if he wants her to call him out and send him home or not.

Swallowing, he steps closer, head ducked down so he’s staring at the space between their hands. “Did the doctor tell you anything?”

“No, couldn’t. But I already know.”

“You do?”

“Kidney infection,” she sighs. “That’s the best explanation for it.”

Sonny closes his eyes and shakes his head. “And, uh, what does that mean? For her? And the baby?”

Amanda’s fingers curl against her palm. Carisi looks up, the pressure on his chest growing the longer she remains silent; she won’t meet his eyes. “It’s not good.”

“Is she going to lose the baby?”

Breathing in deep, she keeps her eyes down. His eyes fall to the slight dip of her collar, where her skin is visible. “It’s possible.”

A low, rough groan escapes the clench of his teeth. He turns away from Amanda so she won’t see the paleness of his face. After everything this girl has been through, now this. All because of Price’s lack of care.

“Sonny,” she repeats, as sweet as his mother. “Are you-”

“Amanda,” he mimics, taunting but smile showing all of the adoration he feels for her. “Don’t worry. I’ll go home soon. Eat something good. Get some sleep. Drink some water or whatever. Don’t worry about it.”

In the end, after calling the Lieu, talking to Tabby again through her tears, and then with her doctor, Carisi feels as if he’s been gutted. He keeps picturing a pumpkin carved open, cleaned out brutally, and left to rot; that’s about how he feels, and it’s enough to make his lips twitch despite the circumstances. In the end, he stays too long, to the point that Amanda’s glare has him chafing.

Despite his promise, when he does leave, he can’t bring himself to go home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings:**  
>  Mentions of sexual assault on a minor, mentions of physical assault, mentions of Nazis and KKK groups, mentions of threats, vomiting, panic disorder, mentions of past gun violence (specifically when Sonny was held at gunpoint), mentions of abortion, mentions of possible loss of a child, and illness/infection.
> 
>  
> 
> _If there is anything else you feel should be included, please tell me._
> 
>  
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Your comments, kudos, et cetera mean the world. I hope this chapter didn't disappoint.


	3. In His Court

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "An hour alone with detective Sonny Carisi? Whatever shall I do?”
> 
> “Better than an hour alone with a lawyer, right?”
> 
> “You are a lawyer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your feedback and support! Sorry this took longer than usual. The next chapter shouldn't take as long.
> 
> Again, there are sensitive topics in this chapter which I list in the end notes in case anyone wants to check for triggers.

_August 3rd - 6:41 PM_

It’s early enough that Carmen is still seated behind her own desk, mouth tight as she types, when Carisi returns to the office. As loud as the press of her fingers are to the keys, she might as well be broadcasting her frustration to the whole building. Carisi is glad he brought her a meal in case she was around, and places yet another treat before her in hopes of relieving the tension in her shoulders.

Instead of melting and smiling the way she usually does, Carmen jumps, rearing away as if he’s just placed a bug on her desk instead of a box of her favorite Pad Thai. “Carisi!” She looks scandalized to see him, as if he has been expressly forbidden from showing up like this more than once a day. (He hasn’t.)

Carisi shrinks before her as he attempts to find a reason he _shouldn’t_ be here; it quickly becomes apparent it’s more a matter of attempting to narrow the list to just one. Heading to Barba’s office only seven or so hours after being here last, and this time with no true reason, is perhaps not the brightest idea he’s ever had, but to be fair he’s not at his best today.

“I’m sorry,” he says, hand rough at the back of his neck. He imagines rubbing away the blush forming there, but then realizes he’s probably making it worse.

She looks at the food again, frowning, and doesn’t meet his eyes. “Oh.”

“Oh?”

Carisi shifts from foot to foot under her gaze, the slight pout of her lips enough to make him literally scratch his head. “Sonny, are you okay?” Her pout grows, brows knit. “Not that I don’t appreciate the food.”

The emotions he’s been pressing down within himself in a pathetic attempt to hold them at bay leap at the chance to reveal themselves. His turmoil manifests physically, lapping at his insides and settling like an apparition upon his chest. Covering his eyes without thinking, he takes a shuddering breath, and when that’s not enough he quickly swallows down another.

“Carisi? Sonny?” Her voice is distant, and yet her hands are on his where they mask his cheeks and eyes. “What happened?”

His mouth opens to speak as if on command, but stops himself as soon as his mind catches up with his body. If he’s cracking under this pressure, how will someone unused to these horrors handle it? He shakes his head, eyes slipping closed as he lets his hands fall away, taking Carmen’s with his.

He laughs, and it sounds as frail as the little girl currently lying in a hospital bed, being told she has a kidney infection that can, at worse, kill her along with her child.

“It’s unlikely,” Amanda had assured, over and over. “Really unlikely. They’ll fix her up. She’ll be okay. They didn’t catch it right away, but it’s still okay. They don’t think it’s caused any serious damage.”

Carisi can tell when Amanda is trying to appease him. It didn’t help that she seemed to be holding back a wince the whole time.

Carmen’s eyes widen then soften with understanding. “Let me go talk to Barba for just a second, alright? He’s been on the phone with Lieutenant Benson off and on for the past three hours, so if you barge in now he’s bound to snap.”

“His sugar drop?”

She pauses, already at the door with her hand against the wood. “You gave him that donut, didn’t you?” With that, she slips inside, trying her best to open the door as little as physically possible.

Blowing his breath out between his teeth, Carisi sets the bag of food he’s brought onto the desk next to Carmen’s box. She’s so neat, it’s not difficult to find the room.

He thinks of Barba’s own desk, an organized chaos solely due to the amount of paperwork he’s laden with. Then of last week, leaning up on the edge of it by Barba’s side, his leg brushing the arm of his chair. Hearing Barba’s voice rise through the door brings him back to reality. His stomach churns and his throat clenches as if his body is preparing to be sick. Swallowing it down, he wipes away the burning of his eyes and takes a steadying breath.

He’s in Barba’s office, breaking down, and he doesn’t want to leave.

Time alone is the last thing Carisi needs, and the ultimate reason he didn’t go back to his apartment. He’s the type that’s so used to being surrounded by others (by sisters, cousins, laughing aunts and uncles, and his parents playfully bickering), so much so that he’s not sure what to do with himself in the quiet of his apartment, especially at times like these. It creeps in, the silence, and rattles around in his mind until all sorts of unwanted thoughts pop out. Right now, even considering going home has his skin prickling and stomach shifting like he may be sick if he chances it.

The door opens so violently that he jumps.

“Carisi?” Barba looks like he’s just found a wild animal on his doorstep, not Sonny standing listlessly outside his office. His curled lip does not relax entirely, but his expression of discontent does ease; it’s misleading. “What happened?” he demands, tone low and ice-cold.

Sonny blinks at him, deciding he might open his eyes to find he’s imagined the words or the fierce expression on Barba’s face, but no such luck. “Nothing happened.” The lapse between question and answer leaves his response hanging awkwardly between them, far too late. “Sorry - I’m sorry. I’m just tired. Not all here, I guess.”

Barba’s brows furrow. Carmen appears by his elbow, offering, “He brought takeout.”

A light bubble of hysterical laughter slides up his throat, but Sonny clenches his teeth around the noise, cutting it into a strained, pained sound. Carmen jerks her head in his direction, eyes like saucers.

Maybe they’re looking at him like this because he appears as strange in his skin as he feels.

Rolling his eyes, Barba steps back, ushering Carmen out of his office and back into her own. She smiles at Sonny apologetically as she passes; it reminds him of when one of his sisters would get him in trouble with his father on accident then suck up to him in search of forgiveness. (“I didn’t know you weren’t supposed to be out, Sonny! Cross my heart.”) With that done, Barba looks to Sonny expectantly, lips curled into something just short of a grimace.

Carisi grabs the takeout and slouches into Barba’s office; the ingratiating looks Carmen is sending him adds to the nerves knotting his stomach. It’s not unlike a child being punished, and the worst part is he’s not entirely sure what he’s being punished for.

Barba closes the door sharply. It’s like the slamming of a cell door. “Talk to me.”

Carisi collapses into one of the leather chairs in front of Barba’s desk, groaning in relief when he finally gets the weight off his feet. They’re aching along with his lower back, so much so that he plans on getting at least a little tipsy when he does eventually get home tonight; it will help with the pain, and put him to sleep instead of letting the pain keep him awake.

“Nothing happened, don’t worry.” Calling Barba “Principal” would probably get Carisi into even deeper shit, so he bites his tongue.

“You come into my office looking like this and you tell me not to worry?”

Carisi turns, a pressure building in his chest as if Barba has reached within him and grabbed hold of his heart. “What?” he rasps, voice as small as he feels in the face of Barba’s fury. He’s lost in a way he hasn’t been since the last time a nun was angry with him, using the flat of a ruler to spank some sense into him until he was trembling and feeling every bit as powerless as he was; the image of Barba with a ruler in hand springs to mind and Carisi chokes on air, coughing into the curl of his elbow.

First cuffs, now a ruler. Carisi needs to sleep.

Barba is unimpressed with the display. “I said-”

“I heard what you said,” Carisi counters, making his throat tickle once more. It sends him into a fit of rough coughing, and he takes the chance to turn away from Barba as to avoid the displeasure in his eyes. “Sorry, sorry.”

Barba sighs so heavily as he sits in his chair that the papers there rustle. “What happened?” he repeats, tone brooking no argument. “Are you sick? Take a damn cough drop.”

With a jerk, Barba opens a drawer and throws one across so it hits him in the chest. A sharp laugh breaks through Carisi’s coughing fit as he scrambles to catch it. “Thanks. And no, I’m not sick. Just….”

Barba circles his hand, not in the mood for stalling.

With a deep breath that has his ribs aching, Carisi tells him, his hands fisting sporadically on his knees. Barba’s expression grows more nettled as he continues. A sour taste spreading across his tongue, he recounts the experience with the father, the threats of the perp, the inaction and meddling of the KKK, and finally of Tabitha Price. The further into the tale he gets, the tighter the clench of his hands becomes until the scrape of his nails against his palms is a dull, pulsing pain. It’s all too welcome a distraction.

“She might lose the baby,” Carisi concludes. He can’t tell if he’s taken forever to get it all out, or if he rushed it so quickly that barely any time has passed. Barba’s expression is unreadable, bearing no clues for him. “Nothing really happened. I’m sorry if I made you, uh, worry.”

Barba’s eyes flicker from somewhere just over Carisi’s shoulder to his face and back again. He shifts where he’s leaned back in his chair, chin on his hand, and rubs a thumb over his jaw. Carisi’s eye follows the motion. Barba’s getting the smallest hint of a shadow along his jaw; it would probably feel nice beneath his hand.

Carisi is going to pretend he didn’t just think that.

Suggesting that Barba could possibly be _worried_ feels simultaneously fine and ridiculous, and in turn considering if Barba is capable of worry seems cruel if not childishly dense.

“I didn’t mean to-” He falters. “Bother you with this. I just didn’t feel like…. I felt like I would go crazy alone in my apartment,” he confesses. “I can leave if-”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Barba scoffs. When he meets Carisi’s eyes again, his gaze is so intense words flee him. Sniffing, Barba releases him from his hold by looking to the takeout, sharp eyes no longer pinning him but instead the styrofoam. He snags it as if suspicious Sonny will take it back. “What did you get?”

“Tom Yum. For you. I got spring rolls to split, too. One for each of us. Should take it out to Carmen before she leaves.” He’s babbling, but Barba is, for once, kind enough not to comment on it. Carisi wishes he would. He doesn’t want to be handled with kid gloves right now; if he did, he would have gone to his Ma or someone else. A flash of resentment has his throat burning and his nails digging into his skin further. “Not going to tell me to shut up?” he mutters. Barba has never told him to in these words (Has he? Maybe he has, but if he has it would have been playful or halfhearted at best), and surely, he never would (unless maybe he has). It’s unfair; he regrets it immediately.

“Don’t be a child.” Barba sneers, but it’s still not as vitriolic a response as it should be. When Barba’s eyes slide over to him once more, his expression is stiff.

Sonny hunches over, trying to hide the burning of his cheeks. He’s not sure if it’s the sensation of being gentled or the ludicrosity of his own words behind his shame.

Barba unpacks the bag, humming as he pulls out the container of his soup; Sonny hopes it’s still hot. Next is the smaller box. Barba opens it to confirm the rolls are inside and hands it to Carisi. “Here, take this out to her.”

Numb, Carisi obediently does. Carmen appears confused, but takes one of the rolls without question, and Carisi quickly returns to Barba’s office, standing awkwardly in front of his desk.

“Sit.”

Carisi does, flush spreading over his cheeks much to his consternation.

“Eat.”

Again, Carisi listens, eagerly tucking into his meal without shame. He didn’t eat much other than a donut for breakfast and nothing for lunch today, just cup after cup of coffee. It’s all he can do to keep himself from moaning at the first bite.

“You two are always giving me hell for how I eat,” Barba says, voice uncharacteristically soft. Carisi looks up, alarmed and chastised in equal measure. Taking a spoon from its plastic, Barba meets his gaze with a particularly tired moue (if Sonny didn’t know better, he might even call it childish). “Hypocrites.”

Carisi’s laugh is breathless and so quiet it doesn’t feel like his own. “I suppose that’s fair.”

The answering snort from Barba is equal parts disdain and agreement. It has Carisi relaxing, a tension he was unaware of leaving his spine.

Tucking a napkin into the collar of his shirt, Barba glances at him in a way that’s meant to be furtive. “Feeling better now that you’ve talked my ear off?”

Carisi finds himself smiling, though it’s not as full as he wishes it could be, both sincere and to reassure Barba. He can’t tell if Barba is really irritated by how much he’s said, or pushing him to say more; it’s not like Sonny has prattled on as much as usual, and they both know it.

“I just don’t understand why this case is getting to me, y’know?” He meant to say something else, something affirmative and teasing for extra measure. He’s not all that surprised his tongue slips and this comes out instead. He spears a piece of chicken on his fork after two tries, the plastic refusing to work with him.

“Young vics,” Barba supplies, head tilting as he stirs his soup. “They seem to-” He pauses, hand stilling and eyes scanning over his papers as if he has the rest of the sentence written there. “‘Get’ to you.”

He starts to laugh but stops himself partway through, the hollow sound doing his stomach up in knots and filling him up with dread. Every time he opens his mouth tonight, it feels like someone else’s voice spilling from his lips. Frowning, Carisi sets his box on the edge of the desk and leans back, hands returning to his knees to ball into fists. He can’t meet Barba’s eyes right now, so he stares at the whites of his knuckles instead.

“That’s not it though. I’ve dealt with young vics before. I’ve dealt with pregnant vics, too,” he explains, repeating the same shit he’s been telling himself since the start.

Barba is silent, letting him figure it out on his own. He’s torn between appreciation and annoyance, wishing for Barba to prod him in the right direction but also hoping he just listens.

“What do you do when it gets under your skin? Does anything get under your skin?” he appends, thinking not only of ICE but all of the threats Barba has received.

“I use it,” he says as if it’s self-explanatory. “If it gets under my skin, chances are it will get under the jury’s.”

Carisi leans back. Though he asked, it would be more like Barba to roll his eyes than to admit to something like discomfort so he didn’t expect an answer. Still, it is like Barba to wield any supposed weakness as a sword. If only Sonny had the same strength.

For the first time in a while, he’s struggling to recall that Barba is human. Is only human.

“I wish it was like that. For us. I hate playing, y’know? Pretending to be buddy-buddy and agree with whatever shit comes out of people’s mouths next.”

Barba narrows his eyes. “What are you talking about? It’s always a matter of building false security. This has _always_ been your job.”

“It’s personal this time.” It takes saying it for Carisi to realize himself.

Scoffing, Barba takes a spoonful of broth to his mouth then settles it back in the cup as if preparing himself for whatever he’s about to say. “Because she’s pregnant.” It’s not a question, and the assumption has Carisi’s skin heating. It shouldn’t rub him wrong; it’s not an insult, and yet his blood is near boiling.

He shakes his head, eyes falling to the floor as he attempts to put his feelings into words. “I already told you it’s not that. I can handle pregnant vics. It’s not that.” The tension building within him doubles with each word; he sounds like he’s trying to convince himself, not Barba.

“When Seymour came in,” he says, slow because he feels like his mouth and brain need time to catch up to one another. “She…. She was….”

Barba presses his hand to the table, his fingers splayed against the wood. “She what? How is this personal? Do you know her?”

“What? No. No, nothing like that. No.”

“Then what is it?”

“She was… _bothered_ ,” he grits out. He winces and pinches the bridge of his nose, stomach roiling. The smell of food is now repulsive and the sour taste has returned to his mouth like a bad memory.

“‘ _Bothered_.’” Barba’s acidic tone is, in a strange way, a relief. Like the burn of ripping a band aid off.

Releasing his breath, Carisi meets his eyes. “Yeah. Bothered.”

Barba’s brow arches upwards.

Groaning, Carisi shifts in his chair, once again dragging his eyes away from Barba so he doesn’t have to bear the brunt of his annoyed glare. “Let’s just say she didn’t appreciate the diversity of the precinct.”

Understanding dawns on Barba’s face. Watching out of the corner of his eye, Carisi fights the impulse to stand and pace. The way Barba is looking at him like he can see through every expression, word, and squirm to some deeper meaning Sonny isn’t even aware of has his head pounding. Barba’s gaze trails over his face, leaving his skin flushing and prickling in its wake as if this intangible touch is rubbing him raw. The sensation compounds when Barba leans back, lips curling, pleased to be in on a secret Carisi isn’t privy to. It’s not unlike the day before, when Fin and Barba had some unspoken understanding Carisi couldn’t pin down.

“What?” It’s harsher than he intended it to be, but not as vicious as Barba will get with him. Besides, it does no damage if Barba’s growing smirk is any indication. “What?” This time, it comes out pathetic and whiny; Carisi doesn’t have the energy to be embarrassed by it.

“It’s not personal,” Barba says vaguely, cocking his head as if amused further by Sonny’s ignorance.

Carisi’s mouth is too dry to swallow, but he tries anyway. “I just told you-”

“It’s not. It’s racism. It’s not about the precinct.” Barba waves his hand, smirk growing less kind by the second. “Don’t get worked up about it.

Gritting his teeth, Carisi leans forward. His fisted hands slip from his lap to the arms of his chair, and he grips them tightly. “You think I’m upset on behalf of the NYPD?”

Barba straightens up, amused. “You just said-”

“I just said a woman walked into the precinct, mouthed off about how-how _unholy_ it is that we have people like Fin and - Sokoll and _you_ and- Fin helped us find these guys and you’re the one who’s gonna put that bastard away and-” He shakes his head, words fleeing from his mind as Barba’s expression of vicious humor falls away to one of careful blankness. This time, swallowing comes easier though there’s still a tightness to his throat. “She looked at Fin like… how somebody might look at a wild animal. That’s what it reminded me of,” he says, slowly raising his head. “Yeah, that’s what it was like.”

Barba is quiet, expression still guarded. Sonny ignores it.

“Called herself a ‘good Christian,’” he adds, voice lacking the force from before. “And there’s the girl. They told her that rape can’t cause a pregnancy and she believed it. Wouldn’t even be in this situation if it weren’t for her father believing ignorant shit like that.”

A chill passes through him and he covers his eyes, slouching down in the chair. His mind wanders back to yesterday, and the thought of Barba’s friendship or lack thereof. He presses his hand tighter to his face and sinks lower until his knees hit the front of Barba’s desk. Knowing he looks like a petulant child, he’s overstayed his welcome, and Barba is livid, he sits there, unmoving. His misery has cemented him in place.

The cough drop is still in his lap.

There’s the scrape of a drawer, then the clink of a glass. He bites his lip, refusing to look. The sound of liquid being poured is the only one in the room beyond Carisi’s harsh breathing, but it’s quickly gone.

“Drink,” Barba orders, and Carisi peers through his fingers to watch as the tumbler is sat before him.

“I have to drive.”

“You’re not driving tonight.”

Hand falling away, Carisi furrows his brow. “What do you mean?”

“Are you still on duty?” Barba asks instead of answering like a normal human being.

“No.”

“Have to go to Rollins’ apartment or anywhere else?”

“No?”

Maybe Barba and Carmen, unlike the precinct, think Carisi has a crush on Rollins, not Barba himself. That’s the only explanation Carisi can find for the question, because surely Barba doesn’t know how pathetically often he passes out on Amanda’s couch with a baby on his chest, waking to Kim drawing a mustache on his lip. (Often enough that he has taken over a solid section of Amanda’s closet so he has clothes ready for him when he ends up staying there.)

Barba is clearly unamused by his indecisiveness.

“No,” he repeats, firmer.

“I assume you’ll trust me to drive you home, then.”

“You have a car?” he asks dumbly.

Barba rolls his eyes. “No, I’d drive yours.”

“But how would you get home?”

That earns an outright sigh. “Do you trust me with your car?”

“I- Yeah, sure. Just- I sort of planned on driving around a little before going to bed. Too late to go to the gym,” he adds, more to himself. Catching Barba’s look, his neck heats. “I just mean I need to clear my head. And, uh, being alone in my apartment makes me feel,” he shrugs, sitting up. “Trapped? No, that’s too dramatic. Just-”

“Do you want to spend tonight alone, or would you rather come to my apartment?”

Carisi stares. How did they get from an argument to Barba giving him some of the most expensive alcohol Carisi has ever so much as seen and offering to take him home? _Home_ , as in to Barba’s home. Where Barba lives, eats, sleeps. Where Barba fussily makes tea, and takes care of that infamous cat. Where Barba gets dressed and, presumably, undressed.

Carisi isn’t sure why that came to mind, particularly considering it’s the last thing he should be thinking about.

Is the apartment as elegant as the man? Is it rich like the whiskey in his hand or simpler like his office? Does it smell like Kona? His cologne? Carisi takes a deep breath without thinking, but all he catches is the scent of their food, not the odd, lemon verbena cologne or the sweetness of Barba’s damn tea that clings to his breath.

Earlier, it had been unclear if Barba was asking him to dinner as colleagues, friends, or as something else, and now it’s so much worse.

“I have an extra bed,” Barba supplies, answering at least one of his questions. “And more Kona. If you take the bag, I will actually consider charging you with theft.”

Licking his lips, Carisi takes the tumbler between thumb and forefinger. He sips on the whiskey, letting it slide over his tongue. It’s so expensive he’d feel bad knocking it back the way he wants to right about now. “Why?”

“‘Why’ what?”

“Why are you offering to, uh, let me sleep at your place?”

Barba looks at him as if he’s stupid, and the familiarity of the gesture is oddly grounding. “You walked in, told me you feel like you’ll ‘come out of your skin’ alone, then that you had to deal with a child near death today. Do you really think I’m going to let you go home alone tonight?”

The whiskey is beautiful, in a strange way. He glances at Barba’s eyes, then back to the liquor, considering the colors. When he swirls the glass, the light glints across it. It would be nice if he had some ice.

“Sorry,” he says eventually, taking another sip.

Scoffing, Barba leans across his desk and grabs Carisi by the wrist when he moves to set the glass down again. “ _Sonny_ , you’re upset on my behalf. Let me do this, at least.”

A strong, bright feeling fills his stomach and chest, even as his brow knits and his hands ball up. He can’t recall a time when Barba has ever used his name, not at work or even after, when drinking and laughing together. It has anxiety and outright joy mingling in the pit of his being, out of control and powerful. His hands are trembling ever so slightly. “What? I’m what?”

Breath rushing out through his nose, Barba releases him and sits back again. Carisi’s skin tingles with hyper-awareness. “The Klan member. You and me both know you don’t feel this offended on your own behalf. You’re upset on mine. On Fin’s. You said so yourself.”

The sensation that washes over him, this tingling that makes him feel as if every inch of his being has been laid bare to Barba’s sharpness, can be closest described by _vulnerability_ but it’s too weak a word for it. “So?” he whispers, again knowing he’s coming off as querulous.

Barba’s lips twist; the softness of his expression has Carisi curling in on himself, not sure if he should feel put down or what. “ _So_ , you’ve upset yourself worrying over me.”

Warmth slithers through his abdomen, his chest, and into his throat, stifling his breath. He’s torn between a sense of befuddled appreciation and the unease that comes with the inability to tell if someone is attempting to put him down or not. “Is something wrong with you?” Wincing, Carisi avoids Barba’s eyes. “I just mean- I just mean this isn’t like you. Worrying or wanting to-to invite me over or-”

He jerks his head up. Barba gazes at him solemnly, countenance somewhere between unamused and disinterested. Carisi ignores the severe expression, clearing his throat. With some trepidation, he asks, “Counsellor, would you consider me a friend?”

It’s satisfying in a dull, childish way to see Barba thrown for a loop. Mouth soft and eyes wide, his expression is overcome with his shock. His Adam’s apple bobs. “I’ve given you reason to question it.”

Carisi flushes down his throat. “Right, right. A, uh, stupid question-”

He rears up and forward like a puppet on a string. “ _No_. No. I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”

The blush spreads across Carisi’s cheeks until he feels almost feverish. He wants to laugh this off; it seems like the best way to go about it. He can’t find his voice, however, in the face of Barba’s typical intensity narrowed to him alone.

Barba takes a deep breath and leans back, regaining that impassive air from before. “I meant that I’ve not….” He wavers, eyes downcast and his own cheeks pinkening. “I’ve not been as kind to you as I could be. I’ve given you every reason to question what our relationship is.”

Breath hitching, Sonny feels dizzy and detached, like he’s floating somewhere over his shoulder instead of taking residence in his own body, all because Barba just referred to whatever this is as a _relationship_. When did it become something to be called that? Where was Carisi when it happened? He must have missed something.

“Yeah?”

Inclining his head, he murmurs, “Yeah.”

“So… is this your way of saying you do consider me a friend?”

The pink darkens. “No, I give my best whiskey and coffee to just anyone.”

Carisi’s smile is spreading like wildfire.

Closing his eyes, Barba drags his fingers through his hair, slow and smooth. Carisi finds himself staring at the movement. “I consider you a friend,” he reiterates, voice low. “So, let me at least make sure you get home safe tonight.”

Feeling so warm inside he’s probably halfway to glowing, Sonny presses closer until he’s on the edge of his seat. Licking his lips, he glances down to the tangle of his fingers as he works out his excitement and nerves. “Friends.” His laugh is childish and bold, almost back to normal.

Barba sighs, and instead of crushing Carisi’s chest in with sudden anxiety the noise has him grinning even wider. “That’s what I said.”

Another strained laugh escapes him, and Sonny clutches his hand over his mouth as if as an afterthought. “Sorry. Must be the whiskey.”

Cocking his head to the side, Barba slides his eyes over Carisi in such a powerfully precise movement that it has the giddy laughter fleeing from him, replaced with a sudden chill that crawls down his spine. Carisi’s mouth is intensely dry and his heart flipflops around in his chest like a fish out of water as Barba’s lips curl in that same measured way that marks the rest of his being. “Mm, I’m sure that’s it,” he drawls, smirk growing bright.

Sonny’s heart lurches, his jaw going slack and eyes wide.

Barba’s smile disappears as quickly as it came, replaced by a frown. “What?”

Shrugging, Carisi finally leans back in his chair. “Just don’t see you smiling a lot, y’know?”

Peering at him out of the corner of his eye, Sonny’s heart goes back to stuttering fitfully as Barba’s cheeks color. It’s barely there, but still enough to catch his attention.

“You should do it more often.”

Carisi’s not sure what he should be expecting, but it’s not for Barba’s blush to thicken. His own cheeks heat in response.

“Right. So, what do you say?” Barba puffs his chest out and leans back as if he's trying to piece his pride back together, this time as a shield around him.

“Huh?”

“To staying at my place.”

When put like that, the concept feels even more bizarre.

“I don’t have a change in clothes with me,” Carisi bursts out instead of saying something smoother. He sinks down once more. “I have work tomorrow, so-”

As if on command, the phone on Barba’s desk rings. Carisi jumps, knee slamming into the desk. Clasping a hand over his mouth, he desperately bites back a groan and curse while Barba answers.

It seems their conversations are destined to be interrupted by calls, and Carisi to make a fool of himself. Bruises to his body seem all too fitting, considering how bruised his pride is becoming in the process.

Barba clears his throat, holding the phone up to his ear. “What now?” There’s a pause while the person on the other line answers; the silence is filled with the buzzing of Carisi’s pulse in his ears. “You can’t be serious.”

Perking up, Carisi strains his ears in a feeble attempt to hear what’s being said, but no such luck.

Barba sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “I’ll come.” His eyes snap open, trained on Sonny, and it’s hard for him not to flinch under the scrutiny. “Do you really need Carisi?”

The voice on the other end raises enough that Carisi can hear the hum of it, but not the actual words.

Barba honestly laughs. It’s a nice sound. Carisi shifts in his chair, eagerly watching the amusement spread across Barba’s face again. “What is it?”

He’s waved off halfheartedly. “Are you really surprised? I’m afraid I just gave him a drink.” Barba’s smile turns conspiratory, his eyes crinkling.

Carisi leans closer, swallowing and licking his lips compulsively. “Me?”

Covering the phone with his palm, he mutters, “No, of course not _you_.”

Carisi scoffs.

“Yes, I’m here.” Barba begins straightening his papers with one hand, motions hurried to the point it seems more as if he’s making the mess worse. “Unfortunately not,” he hums. “I _am_ capable of driving.”

The laughter from the caller is clear as day, even to Carisi.

Barba rolls his eyes, hanging up. “Alright. We need to go.”

Carisi blinks at him, cradling the tumbler to his chest protectively. “Where? Your place?”

“No. There’s been an incident. We’re needed at the hospital.” He unrolls his sleeves, and Carisi’s eyes follow the motion, rapt. He has nice arms. He can see the muscles there shifting. It’s enough to distract him from the fact they’re rushing back to the hospital. “Finish that off. It’s too expensive to waste.”

Moving to follow, Carisi pauses just before his lips touch the glass. “But how will we get-”

“I’ll drive. Keys,” he demands, thrusting his hand out.

Laughing, Carisi shifts to pull them from his pocket. His fingertips brush across Barba’s palm as he passes them, and Barba’s skin is soft and warm against his own. He quickly pulls away.

Sonny tips his head back and swallows down the whiskey to distract himself from these thoughts hounding him.

“Alright, just set the glass there. I’ll handle it later,” Barba says, motioning to the desk as he begins to pack his briefcase. “Bring the food. You can eat on the way.”

“Sounds good.”

As they leave, Barba pauses to speak to Carmen in low tones. Carisi closes his eyes, letting the hush of his voice wash over him and the buzz from the alcohol set in. The softening of the senses that comes with alcohol has already set in, or maybe that’s the exhaustion. That liquor was expensive as all hell, and Carisi isn’t prideful enough to pretend alcohol doesn’t affect him.

He could turn right back around, claim Barba’s couch for himself, and sleep a solid eight hours. He’d pay for it, but it would be worth it.

A touch to his arm has him jolting out of his daze, tilting his head to find Barba by his side, fingers firm around his arm. “Come on. You can sleep in the car.”

Nodding heavily, Carisi turns, guiding Barba out. “I didn’t park too far away.”

“We need to hurry,” Barba insists, grip on his arm becoming firmer; he’s surprisingly strong. A shiver travels down his spine.

The hand lingers. Carisi doesn’t mind one bit.

 

* * *

 

 

Barba behind the wheel of a car is as strange as Carisi expected, if not more so. Elbow propped in the window, he grins like a cat, observing as Rafael adjusts his sleeves and tie. He’s as fussy as ever, and as elegant, which is perhaps what makes it so strange to see him in _Carisi’s_ car, driving _him_ somewhere.

Barba catches his eye, and his lips tick down at the corners. Carisi wonders if his cat has a similarly disgruntled expression, the way his sister’s seems to mimic her annoyed glare at times, and it becomes even more difficult to bite back laughter.

“What are you looking at?” Barba grouses.

“You.”

He rolls his eyes.

Carisi’s smile stretches wider. “Care to tell me what’s going on?”

Barba fingers the keys in hand, looking to Sonny for some guidance.

“Biggest one. Other ones are actually to my sister’s car.”

Shaking his head, the ghost of a smile passes over Barba’s lips and warms his eyes. Key in place, he smooths his hands over the wheel, and again Carisi can’t help but follow the motion. His hands are sturdy, and the image of his fingers curling around the leather has Sonny blatantly gawking.

“We’re needed at Mount Sinai as soon as possible. There’s been a suicide attempt.”

That certainly snaps him out of it. “Who?”

“Vasilev.”

Carisi sucks in a breath, an ache beginning to form right between his eyes. “The girl?”

“Yes, ‘the girl,’” Barba mutters, waiting for someone to take mercy on him and let him pull out of the space Carisi parked in. “Liv is doing damage control as we speak. Fin is with her, and Rollins is on the way.”

“Is she alive?” Sonny barely gets it out before Barba whips the car into the lane, making him fall back in his seat, cursing and scrambling to hold the takeout still in his arms. “Take it easy, will you? No use getting us there quick if you kill us in the process.” Even as he says it, he’s laughing, breathless with his shock. Driving recklessly doesn’t seem like something Rafael Barba would do, but this is the same man who allowed a rapist to choke him with a belt and gave a killer his home address so Carisi supposes it shouldn’t come as such a surprise.

Barba laughs humorlessly along with him. “Rush hour, and road closers. Getting there is going to take time we don’t have to spare. With Katya Vasilev in critical condition, I need to make sure we have everything we need to charge her father without her.”

Carisi’s fingers tighten around the plastic between them. That means obtaining her testimony, ensuring it’s solid and nothing Langan can get thrown out, and keeping him as far away from her as possible. All easier said than done.

Something heavy and cold settles in his middle. It could be the alcohol combined with Barba’s chaotic driving, all little jerks of the wheel and sudden stops, that’s unsettling his stomach, but the thought of Katya allowing her father to get away with human trafficking and her own rape certainly doesn’t help. He takes a deep breath in hopes of easing his nausea but it only makes it worse.

“Well, yeah,” he says, the words clinging to the roof of his mouth instead of coming out the way they should. “But-”

“I don’t exactly want to be stuck in traffic with you for the next hour,” Barba cuts in, but he’s smiling ever so slightly as he says it. It’s not like him, but he’s doing a lot of things that seem out of character today, so maybe Carisi needs to just get used to it. “I suggest you use this time to rest.”

The knot in his chest eases with the teasing, Carisi’s anxiety quieted once again by Barba’s treatment though it lacks the softness he usually seeks. “Maybe I’d rather use it to pester you, _counsellor_.”

Barba’s laugh is low and honeyed; Carisi’s cheeks hurt he’s grinning so widely in response. “You’re unbearable, _detective_.”

“Being here with me is better than spending the night alone doing prep in your office, though.” Carisi swallows thickly as he realizes how that might sound and how bold it is, but it’s not as if he can take the words back. With that in mind, he refuses to shy away from Barba’s gaze.

In hindsight, a lot of the things he’s said and done could be interpreted as coming onto Barba. From bringing him food to pestering him about little things constantly, it all could be seen as a childish crush or outright flirtation. In a way, Sonny was aware of it; he knows those around him see his attempts to garner Barba’s approval as inappropriate or in some way romantic, he knows it _is_ arguably inappropriate though he’s held no romantic intentions. Going to someone he works with to constantly seek validation and get help passing the bar isn’t all that classy of him, but classy is far from how he sees himself and isn’t how he strives to behave.

He’s not ignorant enough to be oblivious to the views of others despite what they may think of his perceptiveness or the effects of his own behavior, but he has been ignorant in other ways. He’s been operating under the assumption Barba is so above him he’d never take notice, at least not the way his coworkers have. The invitation to dinner, the invitation to _stay at his apartment_ , shows that’s just not the case.

Sonny can’t ignore this. This time, it’s not just his imagination.

Barba’s smile falls away, and something cold and cruel curls tight around Sonny’s heart. Barba is careful to avoid looking at him, instead focusing on the road as he jerks them into the next lane, sending Sonny listing to the side and earning a honk from the car he just cut off.

“ _Gilipollas_ ,” Barba hisses, straightening up in his seat as if preparing to face a perp. Carisi’s not sure if he’s addressing him or the other driver.

Carisi covers his mouth with a hand, slipping a finger between his teeth to keep from laughing even as Barba’s response has his chest once again tightening. “You, uh, do have a license, don’t you?”

The glare he earns is withering, but he’s still smiling when Barba looks back to the road. “Don’t be idiotic. Of course, I do.”

“Uh-huh, just checking.”

Barba refuses to look at him after that.

Rolling his shoulders, Sonny settles back with a sigh. Now, on top of the discomfort still crawling beneath his skin at the thought of misleading Barba, there’s the anxiety that comes with pissing him off. The next hour is sure to be painful.

The sky is overcast, as if to reflect Barba’s sour mood, and a handful of the pedestrians milling about on the sidewalks hold umbrellas. He has an umbrella in the car (though where exactly is a mystery) in case the sky decides to open before they reach the hospital. The thought of being huddled against Barba’s side beneath it, leaning to murmur in his ear as they walk, close enough to smell his cologne, has Carisi’s eyes glazing over and his palms growing damp. It would be nice. It wouldn’t be unusual, though, so he’s not sure why he’s so worked up about it.

Barba is often close, mostly because Carisi forces his way into Barba’s personal space so often. They literally rub shoulders at work, sit flush in booths as the squad shares a meal with Barba, and crowd together over paperwork to share hushed words during court. They may not be close in all senses of the word, but they spend a hell of a lot of time _physically_ close now that he thinks about it, so he shouldn’t find the prospect of sharing an umbrella particularly exciting.

He must be getting weak with age if one drink has his mind wandering to this, of all things.

“I can think of at least a dozen other ways I would rather spend my night.” Barba’s tone is darker than the sky, and cuts like a knife, though that’s nothing new.

Carisi physically winces, keeping his gaze down. “Ouch. Really can’t stand my company, huh?” His voice is strained, and he closes his eyes, turning away from Barba as far as he can. It’s embarrassing enough without his blush making itself known.

Such a statement should roll off Sonny’s back. ( _Like a duck_.) He should laugh or come up with something to playfully snap back. He shouldn’t think about it so much. But Barba’s opinion has always mattered to him, likely more than it should, and over the years they’ve worked together it’s only gotten worse, at least in ways. Sonny drags his hand through his hair, scraping his nails over his skin as if in punishment.

“Quite the opposite, really.”

Sonny’s head shoots up and he jerks around so fast his neck aches. Barba is leaned back, turned to face Sonny now that they’re trapped in bumper-to-bumper traffic and he’s free to take his eyes off the road. Eyes lidded and fingers playing across his lips, Barba looks like utter sin.

Carisi finds it hard to swallow.

“I’d much rather share a drink with you than be stuck like this.” He takes a deep breath, as if bitter at the thought of being kept from doing just that, turning away. His profile is even elegant: Strong nose, high cheekbones, and his eye catches the light in a way that has it brightening.

Carisi is screwed.

“Well,” he says, voice reedy, and swallows again. “I feel the same, but I guess we’re stuck here for - an hour sounds right, yeah?”

Barba smirks, glancing at him for only a breath before looking away once more. “An hour alone with detective Sonny Carisi? Whatever shall I do?”

“Better than an hour alone with a lawyer, right?”

“You _are_ a lawyer.”

“Yeah, but- I- Wait, what?”

Barba once again glances at him out of the corner of his eye, but not for long as the cars around them are finally moving. Despite the lack of time, he still manages to convey his sheer disbelief. “With all the legal talk and attempts to do my job for me, how could I forget your law degree?” His eyes are crinkling, but he manages to suppress his smirk. “I was under the impression you passed the bar, or did you somehow mislead me all this time?”

That shocks a laugh out of Sonny, and it feels good, as if he’s lightening. “Sorry, counsellor, just took me by surprise. Think this is the first time you’ve actually called me a lawyer.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” he’s quick to order, gruff.

“An hour alone with Sonny Carisi, detective _and_ lawyer,” Sonny lilts, trying to be as dramatic as possible.

He earns an equally dramatic eyeroll in response. “What an ego.”

“Hey - at least I’m not Buchanan.”

Barba snorts. “A low bar, no pun intended.”

“Better than Langan, at least?” Sonny persists, smile growing by the second. Probably looks shit-eating at this point.

Countenance sour, Barba tilts his head back, nose in the air. Sonny must bite his lips to stifle his laughter. “I’d rather be shot than spend an hour alone with that man.”

“ _He’s been receiving more threats_ ,” Amanda had said, and at the time anxiety had blossomed in his chest, entangling his heart in its hold and seeping into his veins. It does so again, now. He looks at Barba, so calm, and listens to the rush of his breath through his nose while taking in a breath of his own, still not catching any lemon verbena but only the spices of their meal. He can imagine Barba’s flesh painted red the way he’s seen hundreds of vics and officers stained, his body crumbling the same way they all do, and those even breaths going wet and haggard.

The styrofoam cracks open beneath his thumb, and snaps him out of his state. Moving his hand aside, he can see the food inside. He pulls a face, sucking his breath between his teeth.

“Carisi?” He looks up to find they’re once again stuck and Barba is free to study his reactions, brow furrowed and mouth tight. “I’m sorry. That was tactless.”

“’Tactless?’” Carisi parrots back, scratching his cheek.

Barba’s eyes slip over his face as if searching for something that should be there yet is missing. “I thought I had, ah, insulted you.”

Carisi turns towards him, lips parting. Barba’s expression is guarded but not closed; Carisi can see the honesty there, which he isn’t prepared for. “What? Nah, no. You’re fine. Just a, uh, bad memory, I guess.” His tongue slips over his lips.

Glancing at the traffic around them, Barba seems satisfied that they won’t be moving again for a while, so he puts the car in park. His hand lingers on the gearstick before eventually falling into his lap. “That’s more along the lines of what I meant,” he continues, vague and visibly constructing more guards around himself. “Considering your experiences with shootings, it’s not exactly considerate of me to make a comment–“

“ _Rafael_ ,” Sonny murmurs, emphatic. “That’s not what I was thinking. Not at all, honestly,” he adds, tone twisted with bitterness. “I was–“ He shrugs, looking away when the question in Barba’s eyes becomes too much. Barba will roll his eyes and shut down if he expresses his concerns, and he knows it. That’s just how he is. But holding in his concern seems impossible with that anxiety pressing against his ribs and clouding over his thoughts once more. He stares out the window, unseeing, and imagines the spilling of blood once more.

“Dominick?” Barba urges, a hesitancy softening his voice that makes Sonny snap to attention, bewildered.

“The threats. I was thinking about the threats.”

Barba’s brows arch, his eyes wide with something akin to disbelief yet more annoyed.

Fearful he’s about to be shut down, Carisi plunges on. “Y’know? Thinking of you getting shot – it’s not good for me.”

Barba scoffs, incredulous smile stretching across his face. “ _What_?”

“It’s not. I’m serious,” he insists, swallowing. “It came up the other day, and….“ Breaking off, he shakes his head. His heart has picked up a rapid pace, one that has him feeling lightheaded as he struggles between confessing the true fear for Barba’s wellbeing he possesses and making this into lighthearted teasing to ease the tension.

As if sensing his turmoil, Barba brushes his fingers along his jaw, offering, “You regularly discuss the possibilities of my being shot?” His tone is light. He’s provided Sonny with a perfect out.

Instead of taking it as he should, Carisi meets his eyes. “I regularly worry for the people I – care about.” Flushing, he clenches his teeth, looking away from Barba once more as he processes how close he came to telling Barba he _loves_ him, which he doesn’t – or shouldn’t.

His head is spinning. Maybe he has somehow fallen without realizing, and is only now catching up to his own feelings.

Barba is handsome, intelligent, and beneath his masks of fierce cruelty he is a good man. Of course, Carisi realizes he’s a catch – has known since the beginning, when Barba first walked up to him in one of his spiffy suits and looked him over with obvious distaste. But Carisi has also known he’s significantly older, wealthier, and more accomplished than Sonny, and it’s never good to fall for a man without knowing his preferences. Sonny learned that early on in life, and doesn’t care to make the same mistake twice, particularly when it comes to someone who could ruin him.

Barba has, from the very start, been so out of Carisi’s league that he’s never even bothered considering him in this light. And yet here he sits, by Barba’s side, almost confessing to a love that’s snuck upon him in the night.

Breathing out a sigh, Barba seems to slip closer, leaning into Carisi’s bubble. He remembers his earlier thoughts on how near they always are, and considers if that was his subconscious doing or Barba’s very conscious choices. “Dominick,” Barba repeats, low and gently pressing. His hand is on the console between them, and it would take so little for Carisi to reach out and touch him. “Tell me if I’m wrong, but–“

A car horn blares. Sonny jumps, and Barba’s jaw goes tight. They’re still bumper-to-bumper, everyone stuck, so it seems it’s just someone frustrated and in a rush.

“Sorry, what were you gonna say?”

When Barba looks at him, his eyes once again light up as the sunshine catches them. Carisi’s not sure how he could have missed how striking they are. He shakes his head. “Nothing. Hand me that soup – I think we’re going to be stuck here a while.”

Frowning, Carisi passes it to him, and though he gets the distinct feeling Barba is trying to avoid contact, their fingers still end up brushing. It’s really fucking cliched and strange, and Carisi is determined not to blush and act a fool over it. Determination means little, however, in the face of Barba awkwardly clearing his throat and tugging at his tie.

It’s unclear when this began, or how it snuck up on him, but he sure as hell is in deep.

The rest of the drive is spent eating and discussing the Vasilev case. Barba senses that the Price case is off limits after their first talk, and avoids talking about it, for which Carisi is endlessly thankful. Barba, unlike his sisters who fret or Amanda who worries and worries without limit, is good at taking Sonny’s mind of things (things like going to the hospital again, and little girls dying).

Barba keeps his soup in the cupholder and eats spoonfuls between sporadic bouts of actual movement through the city. When he’s not eating, he’s providing amused critiques of Sonny’s thoughts on how to proceed. Sonny continues to pick at the styrofoam of his takeout as he watches him, hyperaware of every movement no matter how small. He’s processing, or at least attempting to, what’s going on between them. Being stuck in tight quarters with the subject of his confusion is both helpful and even more stressful.

When they do reach the hospital, a little under an hour has passed between them getting into the car and getting out. The rain has faded with the light, but the streets are still slick. Carisi’s back stopped its aching somewhere along the way, but his legs are now stiff. He tries to stretch a little, shaking his legs out one by one and pressing his hands to the base of his spine. Barba watches from where he stands a few feet away, itching to get into the hospital already, head cocked to the side and a smirk waring with a frown on his face.

“What? Just a little stiff,” Sonny defends, closing the car door behind him.

“You look like a chicken.”

The words and Barba’s dull delivery send Carisi into a fit of laughter. Barba rolls his eyes and turns away, eager to leave Sonny behind as he sweeps towards the hospital’s entrance. Still laughing, Carisi follows, light on his feet despite the long day behind him and the long night ahead.

“Hey, you gotta do me a favor.”

Barba groans, eyeroll so dramatic his whole head seems to move with it. “Whatever could Sonny Carisi, detective and lawyer, need now? Surely there’s no more homework to look over.”

A bright burst of laughter escapes him, but he quickly quiets. Licking his lips, Sonny does lean in close just as he had imagined doing, but of course this time there’s not really an umbrella to excuse being this close. “Don’t tell Amanda I came by after I took off from the hospital.”

Barba stops dead in his tracks, and Carisi stupidly takes a few steps forward before realizing he isn’t following. Turning, he blinks at Barba’s pinched expression, trying to piece together what just went wrong.

When Barba continues to stare, eyes narrowed, even as a nurse brushes past them on her way to work, Sonny steps closer. “Uh, Rafael? I- I don’t mean lie or anything. I was mostly teasing, really–“

“Why?” he bites.

Carisi swallows compulsively, the image of Barba with a ruler returning to the forefront of his mind. “I told her I’d go straight home.” He feels like he’s talking to a nun, which is quite surreal when combined with Rafael’s bright, expensive tie and the knowledge he’s probably wearing polka-dot socks.

This must be the wrong answer, because Barba’s expression only becomes tenser.

“What? What’d I say?” Sonny pleads, fists balling by his sides to help him remember not to touch Barba.

Barba shifts his weight from one foot to the other, head tilting back. Sonny recognizes this action from when Barba deals with taller lawyers attempting to crowd him, so he takes a step back. That earns a raise of a brow, but no comment. “Are you and Detective Rollins involved?” he asks tersely.

Carisi sputters, then turns his face away to cough into the crook of his elbow. When he faces Barba again, his countenance is more bitter still. Barba had asked if he needed to go to Amanda’s apartment earlier because he was trying to decipher if they’re a couple, as he’s apparently assumed; he was looking at the keys because the odd, silver one that goes to his sister’s car looks like it could be a house key, it being so unlike most that belong to cars these days. Barba is under the impression that not only has Sonny been flirting with him, but that he’s been doing so behind _Amanda’s_ back.

“Jesus Christ,” Sonny rasps, face heating as it all comes together. “I’m single.” He should just tell him no, no he’s not dating a fellow detective, that would be unprofessional, but of course this is what comes out instead. “ _Jesus Christ_ ,” he repeats, at a loss for what else to say.

Barba’s face goes pale, his lips pressed together tightly. Sonny’s not sure he’s ever seen him truly embarrassed before now. “Ah…. I see.”

They linger, awkwardly avoiding contact though they’re standing so close. Carisi’s heart is back to beating fast, but this time he’s not sure if it’s horror or amusement that has him so jittery.

Barba clears his throat and squares his shoulders, finally meeting Carisi’s eyes with an expression that dares him to laugh and yet only makes it harder for him to hold his nervous chuckles in. “I’m sorry for assuming.”

“Hey, it’s alright. I mean, I’m used to it.” He squeezes his eyes shut, silently cursing himself for letting that slip.

“Pardon?”

“Uh….” He shrugs jerkily, smile weak. “The, uh, the stuff the squad says, y’know? The rumors around the precinct.”

Barba laughs, breathless. “It’s a common rumor you and Rollins are together? Really?” He doesn’t sound all that surprised despite how he says it.

Rubbing the back of his neck, Carisi shakes his head when the words don’t come out. “You… don’t know?”

Barba’s amusement is wiped from his expression in an instant. “Clearly not. Now, do you care to let me in on the joke, or not?”

Face heating, Carisi’s eyes dart away and his grip on the back of his neck tightens. “They think I- Well, _we_ –“

His brow knits.

“We… as in you and me.”

“ _Oh_.”

“Yeah….”

Heart in his throat, it’s hard not to laugh it off and brush it all aside. The possibility Barba really does have feelings for him is what keeps him from doing so. He has no intention of being cruel to save face.

Barba sighs through his nose, something about the press of his lips and sharpness in his eyes conveying just how he feels about this. He should have laughed it off, but before he can try to ease the tension by doing so, Barba touches his elbow. “Have you been harassed due to this?”

Sonny jerks back on instinct, his neck heating up again as the urge to look away builds. “It’s just teasing. It’s alright. I’m sorry for – bringing you into it, I guess.”

Lips parting, Barba steps closer, closing the space between them again. “ _What_?”

“I mean, I don’t go along with it or anything like that! I just- It’s because of the law stuff, y’know? And how I offer to take papers to you, and the – uh, I don’t know. Just- I guess maybe I talk about you, sometimes? I mean, Liv does too, it’s not like–“

“You _offer_ to bring me files?” Barba’s face has softened significantly, so much so he looks amused. That’s better than annoyed, at least.

He ducks his head, shrugging. “Well, yeah. It was to learn from you, at first, but now I…. Y’know….”

“’But now’ what?” he pushes.

Carisi drags his hand over his face. “Friends, right?” He smiles lopsidedly, hoping the tension will ease.

Barba shakes his head in disbelief, his smirk growing. “Unbelievable.”

He can’t help but laugh with him. “Listen, though - I’m serious. Amanda and I – just friends. She’s like my sister, and because she’s like my sister she’ll chew me out for not going home to sleep.”

As if attempting to ensure Carisi’s words are the truth, Barba takes in his face, focused. “We need to get in there,” he decides, taking a deep breath and adjusting his jacket. “I don’t have enough time to stand around discussing precinct gossip.”

Carisi bobs his head in agreement. “Yeah, yeah.”

As they enter the building, Barba seems to drift closer and closer to his side until their knuckles brush.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Trigger Warnings:**  
>  Suicide mention/attempt (none of the main characters), mentions of spanking (?), alcohol, more mentions of complications with pregnancy, and mentions of the threats on Barba's life/shooting.
> 
> I mentioned writing this to my mom so she's been having me read it aloud to her while she cooks. I've successfully dragged her into barisi with this chapter. It's wild.


	4. Tucked Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Deep down, he knows how high this goes; he knows that very, very rich and powerful people are feeding into the group, no matter how lowly it may seem to him; he knows that this is nothing compared to however Chesley Grant is living (let alone the current US president).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the delay - school, work, and writer's block were plotting against me, but it's here now.
> 
>  **Warnings:** Homophobia, racism, transphobia, antisemitism, slurs, propaganda is mentioned.

_August 4th - 6:07 AM_

Sonny’s feet are cold, but Rafael is pressed against his side, his skin warmer than a heater. It’s as if beneath his skin he’s all embers, which would make sense, considering how often this man breathes pure fire and leaves welts with the lashing of his tongue.

They’re in Sonny’s too-small bed, and his too-small room from childhood – the one he spent his latter teenage years in before moving out, the one he first brought a boy home to, a boy he intended to kiss, and did. He had tasted of the chocolate milk they’d shared just moments before, and Sonny’s ribcage had cracked open with a relief he’d never known he needed. Maybe it was the relief of realizing he could kiss a boy without the world crashing down around him, or the relief of finally putting a name to the feeling he would get in the pit of his stomach when he saw the same boy wiggle out of his shorts after gym.

Now he’s sharing a pillow with Rafael, crowded close. Rafael’s eyes are bright despite the low light. He’s not smiling, but he’s brushing his hand over Sonny’s chest in soothing circles, pausing to drag his knuckles over his jaw. His lips are parted, and pink like the tie he’s wearing.

Surely, he wouldn’t taste of chocolate milk were Sonny to kiss him now, and that realization has desire itching beneath Sonny’s skin. Would he taste of tea? Coffee? Would that tiny space at the base of his throat taste as lovely as he smells?

Sonny’s heart is like a livewire in his chest, all jumpy and static and little jolts of pain.

Rafael’s thumb finds his lip, as do his eyes. “17.2 percent of Latina women in the United States have reported experiencing a sexual assault,” he says, low, and his teeth gently work his own lip between them. He has the same distracted air he gets when he rereads details about a case aloud while forming his plan of attack for court; Sonny thinks he’ll get out of bed to stalk around the way he usually does any minute now, and he prepares himself for the loss of his warmth. “87 percent of those vics reported experiencing multiple forms of victimization. 47 percent of physical victimization occurred during childhood. 11.4 percent of reported assaults involved fondling, 8.9 an attempted rape, and 8.8 a completed sexual assault.”

He closes his eyes; the skin beneath them is purpled. Sonny cups his cheek in hand. Rafael’s eyelashes flutter against his thumb as he touches the darkened skin.

He breathes fire, and cuts with that silver tongue, but beneath Carisi’s fingers, he feels as if he’s made of light – as if he’s something delicate and ephemeral.

“Child victimization is a pattern common to the general population, but the general percentage of female victimization is 16.6 which indicates that Latina women experience higher rates of sexual assault than those who are white. Considering this is a self-reported percentage, it is reasonable to assume both numbers are much higher.”

“Uh-huh,” Sonny says.

Rafael’s hand moves to his cheek, and smacks the skin there just enough to shock him.

 

* * *

 

 

Sonny wakes to Kim patting his cheek. He’s not in his childhood room, or that twin bed he kissed his first boy in (and much more), or even in his apartment, he’s instead on Amanda’s couch with the sheet someone threw over him tucked around his chest. He’s kicked it off his feet in his sleep so his toes are cold as hell.

When he realizes the warmth against his side he was dreaming of is simply the warmth building between him and the back of the couch. That livewire in his chest collapses in on itself like a dying star, going dark and cold.

Kim sighs at his confused moue, patting his cheek again, not as soft now that he’s awake.

“Gotta get up, Sunshine!” she faux-whispers, smiling crookedly down at him, and brushes her thumb over his cheekbone.

The dream returns to him, along with the thought of touching Rafael’s cheek in the same way. He looks at the back of the couch, half expecting to find he’ll find himself back in bed, with a man by his side, but not Rafael. Some illusions are simply too surreal for him to maintain, no matter how real it may feel.

Kim’s hair is pulled back, the baby on her hip, and a messy apron covering her usual pajamas: altogether the perfect picture of domesticity. If anyone’s a ray of sunshine this morning, it’s her.

Dazed, Sonny blinks at her until she takes to shaking her head at his sleepy state and combing her fingers through his hair. The brush of her nails against his scalp feels nice, and he closes his eyes with a sigh.

“You were talking in your sleep, y’know. I couldn’t tell what you were saying, but it sure was cute. Kickin’ your feet and all. Just like a puppy.”

With that, he sits up, covering his mouth as he pretends to yawn; he’s trying to hide a blush. “What time is it?” The baby reaches for him, and he meets her partway, letting her fingers encircle his one.

Kim beams. “Six.”

“What?” he groans, tugging at the sheet as if it can somehow shield him from her cheer. His feet press to the arm of the couch as he attempts to stretch despite the tight quarters. “Why’d you wake me up? I’ve got another hour to sleep before work.”

“Oh, no you don’t. Not today. Between you, Amanda, and the baby, I swear I’m gonna run ragged!” she sighs, shaking her head and frowning at him. “You and Amanda never eat. Today,” she smiles, getting a look in her eyes he’s all too familiar with seeing from Amanda, “you two are gonna sit and eat like civilized folks, you hear me?”

Laughing breathlessly, he falls back against the couch, stifling a real yawn with his hand. “Alright, alright. Amanda and I have a big day so I guess a real meal wouldn’t hurt.”

“That’s the spirit! Now come on, handsome,” she teases, prodding his shoulder until he pushes himself to his feet. He gets tangled in the sheets and curses, kicking them away as Kim continues to shake her head. “You ought to just move in here, y’know. Stay here often enough anyway.”

“What? And just sleep on your couch forever?”

“No! No, I mean- I mean, we could all pitch in and get a bigger apartment. One with a room for each of us, and the baby.” Sonny jerks his head to look at her directly. Her eyes are focused somewhere over his shoulder, glazed over as she imagines what it would be like. The curl of her lips does bad things to his heart which is already so weak.

Ducking his head, Sonny tugs at the collar of his tee; he feels sweaty despite the chill. “Yeah, I dunno how that would go over. Would probably look bad.”

“What? What do you mean?” she asks, innocent as can be.

“Well, just that some of our co-workers already think we’re – a, uh – an item, I guess.” He shrugs. “Last thing I want is for anybody to think Amanda is, uh, y’know, where she is due to….” He gives Kim a meaningful look.

Kim’s smile goes sly, ignoring the last bit in favor of focusing on the better bit. “Oh, do they now?”

“Who thinks we’re a couple?” Amanda calls from the other room, scandalized, before popping her head into the doorway to reveal her disgruntled expression. She’s already dressed though her hair is damp from a shower. He can’t help but gawk, indignant that she’s so far ahead of him. “It isn’t that girl who asked you out, is it? Nerea, right?”

He coughs to cover his nervous laughter. Avoiding the question won’t work, though that’s his initial instinct. Amanda has never let him get away with that method, and he knows it will be no different this time, so he chooses something more direct. “Nah, nah. It was actually Barba. I don’t think he meant anything by it, though.”

“Barba?” Kim asks as her sister’s brows raise farther than Sonny has ever seen them go. “Is that the handsome lawyer with all the colorful socks?”

“Yeah,” Sonny chuckles, picturing the green socks he had on the last time he propped his feet up. “That’s the one.”

“You know,” Amanda says slowly, taking a step out of the doorway. “I didn’t get a chance to ask you yesterday – about that.”

Sonny scratches the back of his neck, ducking his head slightly as he racks his mind for a way to explain why he showed up to the hospital last night with Barba practically tucked against his side. Liv, Amanda, and Fin’s expressions were each priceless in their own way, but Barba seemed oblivious to the pointed looks shot at their hands which were still unnaturally close. (It’s as if the lack of contact – of entwining their fingers or folding their hands together - only made what contact was present in the barely-there brush of knuckles more dramatic.) He spent the drive distracted by Barba, but he’s still had time to think of what to tell Amanda; problem is, he’s still not sure, he’s so damn lost himself.

Thinking about it makes his knuckles tingle as if the touch is still somehow there despite the miles between them and the hours that have passed.

“About what?” Kim pipes up, voice lilting with her curiosity. “What happened yesterday? Come on,” she adds, prodding him to continue to the kitchen. “I’m making eggs. Tell me all the juicy bits while I cook”

“We have eggs?” Amanda mutters, curious if not a little astounded at the concept. “Oatmeal?”

“I got some eggs yesterday.”

“I can just go to a shop on my way to the precinct,” Sonny provides weakly. “I don’t wanna be a burden.”

“Hush,” Kim mutters, batting at him gently.

Amanda rolls her eyes, disappearing into her room once more. He’s been blessed with another moment to think, and yet his mind feels cottony and overworked, like he’ll get nowhere no matter how much time he has.

He clenches his fist, then stretches his fingers out, and yet the sensation of being touched remains.

Kim pushes him to sit on a stool, and Sonny tiredly complies. She passes the baby to him and immediately brushes her fingers through his hair now that she’s free to. “You have such bad bedhead,” she titters before bustling away to start the eggs.

Jesse is warm and soft in his arms. She smiles up at him brightly, giggling when he grins back. “Son!” she chirps.

“Son- _ny_ ,” he corrects, cradling her head with his hand. She smells clean and sweet, still like a baby, and her hair is soft beneath his fingers though it’s not as downy as it used to be.

“Son!” she insists, and Kim laughs at his failure.

“She can say ‘Sonny.’ She’s just teasing you,” she explains, clearly amused by this herself.

Carefully situating himself so Jesse’s head is nowhere near the counter’s edge, Sonny tucks her to his chest and pokes at her sides, earning giggles and wiggles. She leans back to smile at him, and again he shifts to cradle her head, wary she’ll tip right over.

She’s so delicate, her eggshell skin as frail as just that: an eggshell. Running a thumb over the curve of her cheek, and then the gentle slope of her forehead, he thinks of Tabitha Price. The swell of her belly had been so pronounced – practically unnatural when compared to the frailty of her arms and legs. Her eyes were as bright and clear as the baby’s, like a summer’s sky.

He can see Jesse in Tabitha, can picture her growing up to one day face the same terrors all women face in this world.

There’s something heavy settling in the pit of his stomach, weighing him down like lead. “17.2 percent, huh…” he murmurs, petting her hair again.

Amanda soon joins them, taking the seat by Sonny. He looks up quickly, but doesn’t make eye contact. These thoughts make it near painful to do so, though they only come to mind because he cares.

Now, she’s fully dressed and has makeup on, her lips pink and glossy. They quirk upwards; she must have caught him looking.

“How’d you get ready so fast? Is your whole family made up of morning people?” He rubs his thumb over the back of Jesse’s head again, finding the action soothing. Her hair is just so soft, and her skin somehow even softer. Each time he touches her, it’s as if his worries slip away. “Even the littlest ones?”

She rolls her eyes. “So, you gonna tell me about you and Barba?”

“Uh, what do you mean?” he counters, nerves bleeding into his voice as he fails to think of a way to avoid this. Does she think they’re together? Going to Barba’s office after work then showing up to meet the rest of the team together doesn’t seem like it would convince her that they are, but it certainly doesn’t make it look like they aren’t.

“You know what I mean,” she huffs, tucking her hair behind her ears. “Why’d you go over to his office? I thought you were going back to your apartment.”

Swallowing, he focuses on Jesse as she tugs on his fingers. Tabitha’s had been so very small in his hand; how could she ever fight back against a man? How could anyone that size escape? How could anyone that age escape what she’s been _told_? All that poison slipping and sliding around in her head?

“He invited me to dinner that morning so I figured I’d grab some takeout and bring it over. For him and Carmen,” he tacks on, as awkward as he feels.

Amanda’s silence eventually forces him to face her. Her eyebrows are raised again. Glancing at Kim confirms that hers are, too, though her expression is much more suggestive than her sister’s. He feels clammy, but it’s probably from some terrible blush rather than illness.

“What? Is there something wrong with sharing a meal with a coworker?” He sounds defensive, and he wants to smack himself for it.

Kim’s giggle is light as air, her eyes crinkling impishly. “Not if it’s only a meal.”

“Which it was,” Sonny insists, perhaps too quickly.

He can feel Amanda’s eyes growing wider, but he refuses to face her again. “Sonny… are you and Carmen…?”

He rolls his eyes. “Of course not.”

She pulls a face, lips pursed. “Surely not Barba….”

Opening his mouth to insist otherwise, he finds his throat tight. Picturing Barba’s smile, and the darkness that came to his eyes when they parted ways last night, he closes his mouth again. His fingers are tingling even though he’s still brushing them along the curve of the baby’s skull. His teeth click.

“Sonny!” Kim gasps, turning from the eggs she’s scrambling. This smile is brighter than the last – more enthralled than teasing. “You never told me you’re gay!”

“Kim,” Amanda hisses, but her attention is quickly redirected to Sonny. “I am – _so_ sorry. She doesn’t mean anything by it-“

“Amanda! I can speak for myself you know.” She shakes her head, sighing. “Sonny, you know I don’t judge, yeah? I’m not gonna be shitty about it. Y’know, I think being gay is-”

“He’s not _gay_ , Kim!”

Casting an unamused look Amanda’s way, Kim looks to Sonny expectantly. Her gaze is earnest, but what she says is not necessarily the truth. His family thinks they’re not phobic or otherwise derogatory about it, but they are. Telling her and Amanda would change things. Even though they know him so well, with one little detail thrown into the equation his every action and trait will be cast in a different light. Everything about him will be tainted by assumptions of promiscuity, unreliability, and all sorts of other shit – all because he’s attracted to women and men.

They’d think he’s with Barba no matter what he says otherwise. They’d think he’s cheating with Nerea Vega, though he’s not so much as taken her out for coffee yet or even had the chance to. They’d think that damn bra thing on his computer was for a lover instead of a girlfriend; neither is true, but the fact they’ve believed the later rather than the former shows how they view his character, and he knows that will change.

He loves them, he trusts them, but he knows how this goes from his sisters and parents. He knows that by avoiding this for so long, the assumption he’s a liar or a manipulator or a cheat will only be greater an obstacle –

“Sonny? Sonny, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to….”

Snapping out of it, he looks from Kim’s furrowed brows to Amanda’s slack jaw then back again. “Sorry, sorry. You’re fine. I was just – thinking.”

Kim’s head slowly tilts in question, and he can feel Amanda growing tenser by the second.

“Uh, yeah. I’m – I’m not gay – Wait, no, I am gay. Not – I’m interested in men. Too. Both. Men and women, I mean.” He turns away from the baby and coughs into his shoulder, wishing he had some coffee. “I’m bi – sexual. Not homosexual. To clarify.”

He looks down at the baby and brushes his fingers through her hair. She goes back to smiling, completely oblivious to his stress and the rising tension in the room. “I’m not with Barba, though. Or anyone, right now. I-I wouldn’t just- I wouldn’t do something, like, inappropriate or put any of our work in jeopardy, y’know? Wouldn’t come onto him or-“ His face grows hot as he realizes everything that’s spilled from his lips due to nerves. His hands are slick, and a chill come over him; he wipes them on his pants one at a time to still hold Jesse, feeling guilty for ever touching this pretty baby in his arms. “You get the point.”

“Sonny…” Amanda murmurs, and the softness of her voice creeps under his skin.

“Aw, Sonny,” Kim says just a beat after. “You know I’m not gonna be mean about that.” As if there’s no more to say, she turns and pours the eggs into the pan.

Sonny listens to them sizzle for a long moment, his vision growing fuzzy as his mind wanders. This is where Amanda is wounded because he didn’t tell her sooner, when Kim begins to ask if he likes every man they bump into at the grocery, and when his relationship with Barba turns into something surveilled. Thinking of Barba makes his heart heavy and his empty stomach churn. Sonny’s bisexuality will be perceived as a reflection of him, though of course it’s not. It’s not a reflection of anything, it’s just… how it is.

Though they already tease, if the precinct knew about this it would change everything. Sonny’s sexuality was never expressly revealed at any of the precincts he worked at before, but there was a time in his first Special Victim’s Unit when a colleague found out. He was a wiry man with glasses and this gold ring he always kept on his thumb; his name was Trevis, and he hardly ever spoke, always tucked in the corner fiddling with that ring, which was the only reason Sonny noticed the damn thing in the first place.

Sonny’s not the type to flaunt his sexuality, but back then he was dating this younger man, Quinn. He was an artist-type who had been out since he was in middle school. His parents had accepted him, there was no religion in his life to crush in his chest every time he kissed a man or simply held hands with one. He was free in a way that Sonny had never been, and probably never will be, despite everything shared obstacle against them.

After years of his family muttering when he brought home men, the haunted feeling that followed him whenever he was out with a man in public, or the suffocating guilt when he’d face his God the next Sunday, Sonny was caught up in a feeling of weightlessness that came with the realization he could throw all that shame aside. Quinn is the reason Sonny finally extracted himself from the darker depths of his religion, and the one who emboldened him enough for him to hold his hand walking through the city, stealing kisses as they went. And, in the end, he was caught nose-to-nose with this proud man by Trevis when they were huddled close on Broadway after a show.

Sonny almost came out of his skin, his grip on Quinn’s elbows had gone harsh, and he knew he looked like he’d seen a ghost by the twisting distress on Quinn’s own face. “What’s wrong, Sunshine?” he’d murmured, hand shifting to cradle the side of his face. “Need me to back off a little?”

They’d gone home after that, and Sonny had explained as soon as they were holed up in his apartment. Quinn had laughed gently, twisting a lock of Sonny’s hair around his finger, and assured him his coworkers would be fine between kisses. That was not the case.

Trevis would linger near his desk every few days, asking if he’d went out again with this glint in his eyes that revealed just how much he was enjoying lording his newfound power over Sonny. Sonny tried to laugh it off, but his eyes would burn each time and he started to get stomach aches so intense he’d consider not going to work at all most days.

Trevis would ask if he’d mind someone watching – joining. “Aw, c’mon. No need to look so shocked. I know how queers are.” Sonny must have given him a funny look because his eyes had gone wickedly bright. “What? You think I’m gay? Nah. Just think it’s hot in a sick sort of way, y’know?”

Carisi had left a week later.

Amanda’s hand comes to rest on his shoulder and he jerks, hugging Jesse closer to his chest. The baby reaches up to tug on his earlobe, looking at him with wide eyes. “Hi,” she slurs, shifting to touch Sonny’s lips. He smiles against her fingers, watching her mouth fall open with her curiosity. “Hi, Son!”

“Hi Jesse,” he replies gently, his heart squeezing. What if, now that she knows, Amanda doesn’t want him around her little girl anymore? His stomach revolts, and he turns his face away, swallowing as if he can hold back his nausea.

“Sonny?” Amanda prods, soft as can be. Her hand slowly falls away from his shoulder.

Kim sets a plate of eggs in front of him, then one before Amanda. “Here,” she says, coming around the counter with her arms outstretched. “Son needs to eat, yeah?”

He forces a smile and carefully passes the baby to her. Kim grins at the baby, eyes shining with her adoration. “Hi!” she croons, and Jesse giggles. “Hi, pretty girl! We need to get going!”

“Why?” she giggles, clearly enjoying the prospect of pestering her auntie with questions. “I want Son.”

“I know, I want Son, too, but you need to get dressed! Gotta put on something pretty to make all the boys swoon!”

Sonny can’t look away, his eyes already burning from a loss that has yet to come.

“Talk to me.” Amanda manages to move her stool closer. Her gaze is searching, tinted with a guilt she has no reason to feel. Only then does he tear his eyes from Kim and Jesse, already heading to the bedroom. “Sonny, please talk to me.”

He shrugs, weak. “I’m not sure what to say.” His voice feels foreign on his tongue.

She takes a breath, lips parting, and looks over his face. “Then listen?”

He nods.

“Sonny,” she repeats, somehow gentling her voice further. Her hands reach out, finding one of his where it’s fisting against his thigh and encompassing it in her own. “Sonny, I’m so sorry.”

Brows furrowing, he cocks his head, preparing to respond, but she shakes her head.

“Just let me say it, alright?” She nods as if to guide him to do the same, so he does. “I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have joked. About you and Barba, I mean. I’m- God, I’m just so sorry, Sonny. I hope we- I hope I haven’t made you-“

“Amanda,” he interjects, shifting his hand in the cradle of her own to squeeze her palm. “It’s fine. If it really bothered me, I would say something. It’s not that- I’m not upset about that. Or with you, for anything. I just- I don’t want anyone to think of me differently. I don’t want you to….” His eyes dart to the door Kim and the baby disappeared through.

“ _Oh_. Oh, _Sonny_ , no,” she gasps, as if he’s hurt her. “I don’t care about that! You- I don’t say this enough, but you’re like family to me. You’re like – You’re practically a _brother_. After everything – what all you’ve done for my little girl and my sister – I couldn’t- I wouldn’t-“

He smiles, and she allows herself to trail off, sighing as if frustrated with herself.

“Didn’t think so, but….” He shrugs, eyes downcast. “Hard to know. And, it’s not just that. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable, y’know? Barba. Not- Most men aren’t comfortable with, uh, jokes about their sexuality when it actually involves a – queer, y’know?”

Her eyes widen, and she pinches his palm.

He pulls away, his own eyes bulging. “Ow! What the hell was that for?”

“Don’t call yourself that!” she hisses.

“What? Queer?”

“Don’t repeat it!” she gasps, utterly exasperated with him.

“I- No, no- It’s like- The community uses it now.”

Her brows knit.

“Like, it’s – still a slur, but we… use it? It’s okay. For us to use, not, like, straight – people. Hell, I dunno. I’m just used to being called it so-“

She sighs dramatically, her shoulders sinking with the motion. This expression of frustration and adoration is enough to allow Sonny’s chest to open once more, letting in his breath. It’s going to be okay.

Mouth pursed, Amanda looks at him hard. “Either way, I don’t like it when you talk like this.”

He squirms, glancing at the eggs. “Uh, like what?”

“Like you don’t matter.”

His breath is knocked out of him once more, and suddenly Amanda is there, standing over him, leaning in, embracing him. She smells flowery with her perfume and shampoo, and her breath is soft against his ear. Their positioning is awkward, and hard on his shoulders, but Sonny doesn’t hesitate to return the hug. Arms slung around her waist and hands against her lower back, Sonny allows himself to truly laugh.

“I love you, Amanda.” It comes out before he has the chance to think about what he’s saying, and before he has the chance to regret it she returns the sentiment, kissing his temple.

 

* * *

 

“I think we missed something.”

Sonny carefully slips his coffee into the holder between them, eyes still on the road so he ends up fumbling. Amanda is searching through some papers in her lap, unusually silent. Considering their morning, it’s not a surprise, but still unnerving. Carisi feels raw inside, like each word he spilled about himself and his sexuality rasped over his heart, lungs, throat, and tongue as if they were sandpaper. He’s shaky now: jumping when a horn is blown, skin prickling each time Amanda’s eyes linger on him a moment too long, and heart racing when anyone brushes against him.

Barba’s skin against his own is unforgettable, and now haunting.

He scratches at his jaw, then pauses to rub at it mindlessly; Amanda’s shaving cream really is nicer than his.

 _Missing something_. His insides ache in a way which brings back memories of Trevis. “What did we miss?” he croaks, then swallows and swallows as if he can suppress his nausea or fix the rasp of his voice; maybe he is coming down with something. “Should we put off confronting Tomlinson?”

“No, the opposite,” she says, voice rising as she puts the pieces together. “The address we were given – the one for the apartment building the LWK holds meetings at… it’s the same address listed for Tomlinson.”

Sonny takes a deep breath, fingers tightening around the wheel. A headache is coming on. “That’s not a coincidence. Can’t be.”

“No, no it’s not. It would explain a lot, too. It _may_ be why the super and the owner of the apartment building are protecting Tomlinson.”

“What’s his name again? The super, I mean.” It’s strange how soft the skin along his chin is, so strange he doesn’t stop his rubbing even when Amanda’s glance in his direction turns to a long, bemused stare. “We should talk to him after we get through with Tomlinson. Think we’re five minutes out, just so you know.”

“Alright. His name is Bryson Spalding. The owner is that Grant guy,” she mutters, lips twisted. “You’ve heard of him, right?”

“Nah, I haven’t. What’s his deal?”

Taking a deep breath as if to prepare herself, Amanda lets her head fall back against the rest. “Chesley Grant is this big guy in real estate. He’s focused on New York, for the most part, but he owns property all over, as far as I know. It’s been a while since I heard this, so I could be forgetting things or remembering wrong, but the point is he’s rich and he’s influential.”

It’s not hard to see where this is going. Sonny’s hand finally shifts, and he drags his fingers through his hair, suppressing a sigh.

Snorting upon seeing his expression, Amanda continues, “He’s been in headlines recently for being an outspoken supporter of Trump and he’s made a lot of statements blasting de Blasio and other democrats and liberals.”

“So, are we talking Republican? Or are we talking neo-Nazi nonsense?”

She huffs out a laugh, the sound brittle like it could fall apart into something wet and grief-stricken at any moment. Sonny jerks his head in her direction, his eyes growing wide as he watches Amanda blink rapidly as if to fight tears. Numbness spreading through his chest and along his arms until he feels frozen in place, Sonny forces himself to keep his eyes on the road. Despite the urge to ask her what’s wrong, what she needs, what might have brought this on, what he can do to help, he keeps himself quiet.

Amanda doesn’t need him to say anything right now – she needs him to stay silent, if anything, and so he does.

“I don’t know how I’m gonna protect her,” she murmurs. “In a world like this.”

Sonny takes a shaky breath, his heart hurting. Reaching out, he rests his hand on her knee, squeezing the way he knows makes women feel good. Good and safe. “With me.”

Amanda looks up, eyes like saucers. He can’t hold her gaze while driving – can’t stress this the way he means it. “Sonny-“

“Listen, just for a minute. You’ll raise her with Uncle Sonny, and Aunt Kim. We’ll have breakfast together or Kim will fuss at us. Aunt Liv will come over and bring Noah for playdates. Barba will try to avoid holding her and teach her – I don’t know, how to mouth off, probably. Uncle Fin will teach her how to knock boys out when she gets that age. I’ll teach her how to shoot a gun-“

“Oh my god. I am _not_ letting you teach my daughter how to shoot,” she gets out through her laughter. “That’s an honor saved for _me_.”

Sonny glances away from the road to beam at her.

 

* * *

 

It’s in a nice part of the city they find themselves in. Carisi takes in the trees lining the streets, the wrought iron fence overgrown with vines across the way, the pharmacy just on the corner, and finally the awning hanging over the entrance to 201. A young woman passes by, laughing as she attempts to wrangle the two dogs she’s walking before they bump right into Rollins and him.

Rollins croons, scratching behind each of their ears while the girl flushes and continues to titter even as she apologizes. Despite the tight clutch of his ribs, Sonny finds himself smiling and bending at the knee. He pets the downy fur behind the shepherd’s ear for a moment before it bumps its head against his hand in search of more.

The moment passes all too soon, the girl still beaming and laughing as she goes.

Sonny pushes himself back to his feet. Head to toe, he feels heavy and stiff.

Adjusting the knot of his tie and tugging at the edges of his vest, he breathes out in a loud rush. Amanda’s expression is unamused. He answers with a jerk of his shoulders. “We’re about to be face to face with a monster. Can’t fault me for preparing myself.”

Her face stiffens, throat shifting as she swallows and eyes darting away. She stares at the building before them, then around them to the people on the sidewalks and their shadowed faces in the cars drifting by. She looks lost – adrift at sea with everything slipping through her fingers, and far, far away. Chest hollowed and aching with a rush of empathy, Sonny reaches out to brush his fingers against her elbow, hoping to ground her the way she grounds him when he finds himself slipping.

Repeating what he said over in his head, his brow furrows. He stuffs his hands into his pockets, rubbing his fingers over his slick palms. The brush of her suit against his fingers lingers in his mind, as if he’s still somehow touching her; he scratches it away. “Sorry. That was, uh, tactless – or, um, crass? I don’t know. It just wasn’t very—" He catches the look on Amanda’s face, all forgiveness and that same adoring exasperation from earlier, and falls silent. Ducking his head, he clears his throat. “So, ready to go in?”

He tugs at his vest again, hand scratching at the slick fabric of his tie as he tries to keep himself from messing with it further; he’s reminding himself of when he was a kid and his mom stuffed him into the same suit every Sunday even after it became too tight.

Inside, the building is plain but still classier than what Sonny expected of a secret KKK hideout. Deep down, he knows how high this goes; he knows that very, very rich and powerful people are feeding into the group, no matter how lowly it may seem to him; he knows that this is nothing compared to however Chesley Grant is living (let alone the current US president). The luxuries shouldn’t come as a surprise.

People like this, with silver spoons in hand, could be the ones sending Rafael threat after threat, insisting he stand down. An ember of something insurmountable and fierce alights in his chest, catching in his throat like a burr. Everything burns, but just for a breath, and then Carisi is pushing the rage back down. Breathing deep and blinking rapidly, he calms himself.

They have just a minute to look around, subtly bumping elbows with each other or brushing shoulders to draw the other’s attention to a door at the back of the room or the stack of papers on the edge of the front desk with Grant’s name on the very top, printed in clean Times New Roman.

The door behind the desk is thrown open seconds after Carisi wanders over to the file, considering if there’s a way he can casually sneak a peek. His heartrate spikes, his hand immediately against the gun at his hip. There is no assailant, no six-foot man, but rather a woman with a harried look to her, blond hair a halo of mussed curls around her head which bobs with her, adding to her frantic appearance. Upon meeting his eyes, she straightens her back and smooths the fabric of her sweater. With that, she hurries out to meet them, a tense smile curving her lips. Her teeth stay hidden.

Sonny shares a look with Amanda before turning his attention back to the new arrival. His back is aching again, the sudden bunching of his muscles upsetting it.

“How may I help you?” she croons, as sweet and deceiving as antifreeze. Her lips stretch tight over her teeth, still hiding them. She’s a young woman – maybe in her late twenties. It hasn’t gotten cold around here yet (“Global warming,” Amanda has been growling for the past week, and Kim always cuts in with “You don’t really believe in that stuff, now do you, ‘Manda?”), but her sweater covers her arms and throat, and her pants and boots hide most everything else. Her face and hands are all that are visible. “Are you here to see Bryson, sir?”

Blinking, Carisi glances at Rollins to find her unamused yet unsurprised. With a deep breath, he faces this woman once more, plastering his most charming smile on his face. “We’re here to see a man who may have witnessed a crime, actually, ma’am.” He moves his hand from his gun, brushing his jacket back to reveal his badge. She swallows. “It’s alright if we go up to his apartment, yeah?”

Her forced smile melts away, and her eyes dart to Rollins. For the briefest moment, her expression goes ugly: wrinkled nose, curled lips, narrowed eyes. Sonny shifts closer to Amanda, an equally ugly fear clawing through his chest, forcing his own gaze to move along the woman’s form in search of a weapon.

She clears her throat, somehow making the act stuffy and condescending. “I’m sorry, but you’ll need a warrant if you want to bother any tenants. What are you here for, anyways?” There’s something reluctant yet resolute about her: Her shoulders are squared, but her fingers are plucking at the fabric of her pants as if standing up to them has her on the verge of breaking down despite what the sass conveys.

Sonny smiles, small and insincere. “Ma’am, I’m sorry but I didn’t catch your name.”

She purses her lips; she looks like she just ate a damn lemon. “I’m protected by my fifth amendment rights.”

Amanda very clearly bites back a laugh. “I – Well, we have a warrant—”

“Woah, woah! A _warrant_?” Sonny turns on his heel to find a man approaching from the doors. His grin has Sonny unconsciously shifting closer to Rollins. He’s a big man, got a few inches on Carisi and probably fifty pounds, but he’s certainly not as large as Tomlinson. As jovial as his attempt at a grin is, it’s still sharp as a tack and slimy all over. “I’m sorry, officers, but Becca is just trying to protect the people who call this building home. We really do care about them, and their safety.”

When he’s met with puzzled expressions, he laughs and continues, “Sorry, I should introduce myself. I’m Bryson Spalding – the super here.”

Amanda tilts her head, pretty hair falling over her shoulder. “Of course, of course. We understand, Mr. Spalding.” Her accent seems to thicken, and the man’s expression shifts subtly in response, as if he’s somehow intrigued but playing his cards close to his chest.

Stuffing his hands in his pockets, Spalding straightens up, lips curling into a grimace. “This about that damn _girl_ again?”

Carisi clenches his teeth and swallows back vomit, hands fisting at his sides. Amanda glances at him as surreptitiously as she can manage, clearly taken off guard. Something in Carisi’s expression must give away his repulsion, because she quickly looks back to Spalding, forcing herself to smile. “Pardon?”

He frowns in a way that makes him look like a pouting child. “Don’t tell me Manhattan’s finest have fallen for all of that PC, delusional bullshit? A woman’s a woman – nothing can change that, and nothing will. If that girl’s parents really loved her, they’d smack some sense into her – teach her a lesson about the real world.”

Blinking owlishly, Sonny leans back as if he can somehow make sense of this bastard with space. “I’m sorry, Mr. Spalding, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”

“You, uh…” Rollins laughs, derisive. “You talking about those transgenders or whatever?”

Spalding’s eyes crinkle, and he nods. “Exactly that. You not realize she’s one of them? Lord, I’ve already forgotten that ridiculous name she’s going by. What is it? ‘Iron’ or some shit.” His breath rushes out of him as he shakes his head. “Little girl, running around here with a buzzcut of all things. Can you imagine?”

Recognition has Carisi’s breath catching, and he nearly lurches forward. _A buzzcut_ , just as Gracie had said. Spalding is talking about the boy Gracie claimed was present during the rape, the one with pimples and a “beaky nose.” Carisi’s not sure what this means, but it’s clear this is a game changer. “ _Oh_. Oh, we’ve heard of – her. I didn’t realize she was even a girl.”

Eyes shining with something terrible, Spalding snorts, mouth an ugly, angry curl. “Little kimchi broke in. Can you believe that? Police just kept callin’ her ‘he’ and that ridiculous name she’s come up with for herself. Part of that fucking terrorist group, too, and they didn’t do a damn thing!”

Rollins makes a dark noise. “World sure is falling apart.”

Mind rushing around to piece together these new, seemingly out of place clues, Carisi stares down at Spalding’s shiny, black shoes.

“Carisi here has heard of this girl,” Rollins begins, careful, “but I can’t say I have.”

Spalding hums. “Little sneak. Belongs to that ANTIFA group – the ones killing us good Americans. Like kids playing revolutionary, just like they’re playing at being _men_.”

A laugh escapes the clutch of Carisi’s throat, toxic and hollow, but instead of scowling, Spalding smirks, seeming to assume the laughter is with him. Carisi plunges on, shifting his weight so he appears relaxed, asking, “This girl hurt anyone around here?”

Spalding looks fucking hungry to hear more, and to spill more of his twisted perceptions.

Rollins makes an approving noise in her throat when she realizes where he’s going with this. “Could you – Could you maybe tell us more about this girl? It could really help us out.”

“Yeah, anything for my boys in blue. If I recall, her name is Chon. Like I said, kimchi. A few months back she gets her ass in the basement, where all the laundry machines are and a few storage rooms, doing god knows what. Personally,” he sniffs, crossing his arms over his chest, “I believe she was seeking to plant some sort of bomb. This is what happens when the mentally ill are allowed to fester in their delusions.”

Carisi cuts his eyes at Rollins to find her doing the same, peering at him sharply. Only now does Spalding stiffen, chest filling up in such a way that it’s unclear if he’s simply breathing deep or trying to puff up. “You never did say what you’re here for.”

“Honestly,” Amanda says slowly, voice dipping lower until it’s practically a whisper, and leans closer to the man. She scans her eyes over the walls as if searching for someone lingering, listening. “Now, this is just between you and me, of course.”

“Oh, yes, yes.” He nods, the intensity of his expression revealing more than he intends. He wouldn’t be good at poker – no hiding his twisted glee.

“This is just a –“ She laughs, shaking her head, and looks to Sonny as if sharing the joke with him. “This is absolutely ridiculous. We’re just here to make sure everything looks good, then we can drop the case.”

The man looks to Carisi, so he bobs his head and shrugs as if this is just one of those days. “Gotta keep our bosses off our back, y’know?”

Spalding’s smile is sincere this time, as is his laugh. “I feel you there, son,” he confides, hand clapping down on Sonny’s shoulder companionly. “Boy, do I feel you there. So, what can we do to make this as easy as possible for you?”

Maintaining a grin through the contact and the realization Spalding has centered his attention solely on him, completely ignoring Amanda, is not easy. Sonny’s been through worse, faked worse, so the grin stretches wider. “I- Thanks, I appreciate it. Really, we just need to talk to this one guy – uh. Hell, Rollins, what’s his name again?” He scratches the back of his head, chuckling now. “Sorry – really haven’t been paying attention to this case.”

“Hard to when it’s so…” Amanda wavers as if searching for a word. “Let’s just say it’s clear this isn’t a big deal. Anyway, pretty sure his name is Thomson.”

“Oh, no, that isn’t it, is it?” Sonny mutters, brow furrowed. “Tomlin?”

Spalding tilts his head up, pursing his lips. “Tommy Ray. Name’s Tomlinson. He’s a good, good man. What… What could you possibly need him for?” he says, tone soft and transparently fake. This is one of those things liars do: Offer up a tidbit of information to seem like he’s being forthcoming, thus getting away with keeping so much more.

Amanda rolls her eyes, laughing derisively. “It’s- Gosh, it’s really nothing, sir. Just gotta cover the bases, y’know?”

“Yeah, this is….” Sonny shakes his head. Spalding’s attention has his stomach roiling, but nonetheless he meets his gaze head on, smile still tacked in place. “These days, with the world how it is, it’s like people try to make anything into a crime, but ignore the real ones.”

Realization dawns on Spalding’s face, starting with the widening of his eyes and ending in a mean curl of the lip. This isn’t exactly a safe tactic, but it’s one that’s going to work – Sonny can feel it. If it were to go wrong, it could put the Prices in danger, but it’s not going to go wrong; he won’t let it.

“Let me take you up to Tommy’s apartment,” Spalding offers, tone unnaturally level, sweeping his hand in the direction of the elevator. “I know he’ll wanna get this sorted through as quickly as possible, just like you two.”

“Thanks. Really appreciate it.”

“Yeah, you’re saving us a lot of trouble,” Amanda eagerly adds, smiling sweetly.

Spalding’s gaze lingers on that smile just a beat too long; Carisi wants to skin him alive for it.

During the ride, Spalding chats with them about how they never have crime in this building, how this is the first time any police officers have ever come around, and then about the weather. Sonny stuffs his hands in his pockets to appear at ease, hiding how both are clenching into fists, going tighter and tighter each time Spalding directs his words to Sonny and Sonny alone or ignores Amanda’s gentle attempts at contributing to the conversation. A racist and a misogynist, then.

“This is it!” Spalding announces, far cheerier than he has any right to be, and with that he knocks on the door. “Hey, Tommy, you home?”

There’s no answer, and the look on Bryson’s face speaks volumes: This wasn’t supposed to happen.

“Uh, Tom? Ray?” Spalding drags his teeth over his bottom lip before pursing them together; he swallows. “So, how does this work? You have a warrant, right? Do- Hell, do you just go in?”

With a lopsided smile, Carisi reaches into his jacket to gently extract the warrant from the inner pocket, tilting it back and forth for Spalding to see. “You wouldn’t happen to have a key would you, Mr. Spalding?”

The anxiety is beginning to creep in until it’s visible in the wrinkle between his brows and the darkness of his eyes. Holding out his hand as if expecting Carisi to reach out and grab him instead of passing the warrant over, Spalding keeps his eyes on Sonny’s; it’s not as intimidating as he thinks. The action makes Sonny think of Price, and the little flash of fear that lit her eyes when he reached out to her, and in turn of how pathetic a man must be to hide himself and his beliefs in such a way.

Voice ticking with suspicion, Spalding checks, “This warrant… it gives you the right to just – come right in?”

“Yes sir. Just need to look around. Nothing too bad.”

Frown severe, he rakes his eyes over the paper. “I’m not sure I quite understand what’s going on, officers. I thought you just needed to talk to Tommy? Not sure how this fits into things.”

Sonny smooths his left hand down his side as if smoothing out his jacket, but he’s making sure Amanda knows what he’s about to do (pinky and thumb tucked in, a little tap to get her attention on the signal, but he can’t meet her eyes) and then he allows his hand to fall away.

“Amanda, how about you go ahead and just glance through without me?” he says, more order than offer. She ducks her head in this barely-there nod, looking every bit the docile Southern belle. He turns his attention to Spalding. “Do you have a key?”

Giving the warrant a long, hard look like it will burn up in his hand, leaving him and his cronies in peace, Spalding nods. “Here,” he says gruffly, passing the warrant back. His hands freed, he fishes in his pocket for a moment. “Not sure I have it on me. I don’t typically carry around the keys to random apartments….”

Sonny laughs. “It’s alright, we’ve got time if you need to go get it.”

Spalding jerks his head. “I’ll just get Becca to bring it here.” His hand slips into the opposite pocket and he withdraws his phone. As he types, a puerile pout forms on his lips. “Should’ve figured he wouldn’t be home.”

Becca arrives, key in hand, only a few minutes later, and yet it feels like it’s been ages. She passes the key to Spalding, her hands trembling slightly. He huffs, put upon, and unlocks the door, throwing it wide and motioning for Amanda to go in.

With a smile, small and passive, she slips inside and closes the door behind her. Everything in Sonny burns and aches with the wrongness of letting his partner go in alone, but this is such a delicate position to be in, he’s not sure what else to do. He can only pray Tomlinson really isn’t home, and consider passing his St. Michael pendant his sister gave him onto Amanda; he may have kicked religion, but the superstition remains.

Typically, a search would be conducted by far more officers than just two, let alone one, but now that they’re here part of him is relieved they didn’t come in guns blazing; another part of him, the part of him that loves Amanda with everything in him, is twisting right up with nerves. Not only is she in a dangerous position, chances are she’ll miss something – not through any fault of her own, but rather simply because no one officer or detective can really cover every nook and cranny in an apartment, no matter how small.

Licking his lips, Sonny leans against the wall, sending Becca a smile. “I hate to ask this, but could I speak to Mr. Spalding alone?”

Relief plain on her face, she darts back down the hall before Spalding can say anything. That leaves Sonny to face his puzzled moue alone. “Just what’s going on here?” He sounds suspicious, but less panicked than he had been.

“I’m going to be blunt with you: There’s been a….” He rolls his eyes as if it’s the most ridiculous things he’s ever heard. “There’s been an _accusation_ ,” he stresses.

Spalding’s Adam’s apple shifts as he swallows. “Of what?”

“Of rape.”

Spalding’s expression goes perfectly blank, just as Sonny expects. “Ray wouldn’t-“

Sonny lifts a hand, lips quirked. “Man to man? You don’t have to defend him to me. I don’t care if he did it or not.” He casts his eyes down the hall, then back to Spalding. Lowering his voice, he continues, “Rape? Load of shit. Women are getting a little… uppity,” he mutters, motioning to the door behind which Amanda is searching for DNA and weapons, “nowadays. Have forgotten their place, y’know?”

The pleasure that washes over Spalding’s face is repulsive, but Sonny only grins back. “And… may I ask what you think of the coloreds?” he pries, testing Sonny like one might prod at an animal, seeing if it will bare its teeth.

Sonny’s grin stretches wider, untouchable. “There’s a reason Amanda and I are here, and not any of the delusional liberal types that have started to take over the NYPD. I think our beliefs are quite alike.”

“Oh?”

Sonny pushes off the wall, lurching closer. “Protect our race. Protect our women, but keep ‘em in their place.”

Spalding _beams_. “What’s your name again?” he asks, reaching out to shake Sonny’s hand between two of his own.

“Sonny – You can call me Sonny.”

“Call me Bryson, Sonny. I was worried for a second. Thought you two might be around to cause us trouble.”

“Oh, no. None of that. The opposite, really. We want to make sure you and your people are safe to continue your work.” Bryson’s hands are clammy around his own, but Sonny doesn’t pull away. “Y’know, Amanda’s just gonna come out with a few fake samples and then we’ll be on our way. Not really doing anything, just trying to seem busy. Could actually help you, though.”

His brow quirks, smugness and pride consuming his relief. “You mean with the little transsexual bitch?”

Sonny’s eyes crinkle. “Yep. If you were to show me where she went, what she did, and whatever else, it would help me sort out things with the department.”

“Gladly!”

The door opens, and Amanda pops out, looking innocent as can be. “Alright. Just a bunch of dirty laundry – _literal_ dirty laundry.”

“Figures,” Spalding laughs, seemingly lightened by the development. “I was just about to show Sonny what that trans girl got up to downstairs.”

Amanda stands a little straighter, and the tension around her mouth speaks to a suppressed smirk, though no one would recognize it other than Sonny. “That’s right. Planning on handling that for him, Sonny?”

Grin stretching just a little wider, Sonny meets her eyes. “Yeah, can’t have terrorists running around, right?”

 

* * *

 

The basement is full of laundry machines, and little else. There’s a few benches spread through the room, but otherwise it’s empty. Lights flickering and the plip of water dripping combine to make it all quite sinister, and Sonny can’t help but think about how this is where Tabitha was pressed to the floor and brutalized.

“This is the laundry room – obviously,” Spalding chuckles. “But back there,” he motions to a door closed with the biggest padlock Carisi has ever seen, “is where she was heading.”

“What do you keep in there?” Amanda steps closer, lips pursed.

Spalding pulls a key from his pocket, this one much smaller than the apartment key from before. “Well, we don’t actually _keep_ much of anything in there.” Opening the padlock, and then the door, Spalding steps back. “This is where meetings are held.”

“You wouldn’t mind if I looked around, would you?” Sonny asks, peering into the room. “Just curious.”

That smirk is back, smug and grating. “Be my guest.”

The room is relatively small compared to the vastness of the laundry room. The walls are bare concrete, but covered with questionable poster after questionable poster: _We have a right to exist_ ; _Protect the family, reject degeneracy_ ; and _Just say no to Jewish lies!_ printed across the image of a snake coiled about the earth. Carisi’s mouth is dry.

There are a few ragged bookshelves against the farthest wall, heavy with books. At the center of the room is a long table surrounded by folding chairs. On it, there’s a cheap printer and a stack of paper. Glancing around the room, Carisi shoves his hands in his pockets and steps closer. The papers have black and white images of the twin towers and Islamophobic statements which have Carisi’s hands trembling against his thighs.

“Your accent…” Spalding says, low and slow. Sonny prickles, and turns only to find Spalding is talking to Amanda.

She smiles in that bashful way of hers, casting her eyes down and away almost shyly. A laugh tickles Sonny’s throat, and he looks away to hide his smile.

“Ah, yeah. Moved up here from Atlanta, actually.”

Sonny rounds the table, breathing deep. It smells like bleach in here; so much for evidence.

“Really? How interesting! A good Southern girl, I take it.”

Amanda practically giggles, and Sonny bites his lips.

In the corner sits a pile of beanbags. Feet planted on the concrete, Sonny finds it hard to breathe deep. There are papers next to them, a messy pile shoved aside, an afterthought. Glancing down, he finds one beneath the toe of his shoe. _You will not replace us!_ it proudly claims, the words seated above a picture of a white man and woman holding a baby.

“For the kids,” Spalding says, and Carisi jerks his head around, lost. “The beanbags,” he smiles. “They’re for the kids.”

“Oh,” Sonny mutters, forcing his lips to curve into a smile.

Amanda senses his stumbling, pressing closer to Spalding. “It’s – really impressive. What you’re doing. I’m a mother, so I can really appreciate giving children a place in the community.”

Spalding’s chest puffs out almost comedically far. “Yes, well, they’re our future. We must give them a proper education – no one else will in this society. Pumping their heads full of lies.” Proud, he goes on about this for a while longer, prattling. He turns away from the room, leaned against the doorframe to direct his propaganda at Amanda directly. She really is a lifesaver.

The poster glares up at Sonny from beneath his foot. Something crawls up his throat, dark and vile, until it’s near impossible to breathe. Looking away, his eyes catches the rest of the stack again. Sucking in a breath, he takes a step closer, and falls to his knee. There’s blood on the edge of the stack.

“Something wrong?” Spalding asks.

“Nah, just wondered if I could take some of these flyers,” Sonny replies, smoother than he expected with his blood pounding in his ears. “You wouldn’t mind, would you?”

“Not at all! Take as many as you’d like!” he replies eagerly, eyes lit right up.

Amanda catches his eye, hand raised to her face, thumb tapping against her lips. She gets the message. “Mr. Spalding, could you tell me more about your group?”

He returns his attention to her, more than happy to spill their secrets to a pretty blonde. Shaking his head, Sonny carefully opens his jacket and withdraws a plastic bag from his pocket. Taking the papers by their clean corners, he folds them over and slips them in the bag as carefully as possible before zipping it closed and tucking it beneath his jacket once more. He holds it there with his arm, awkward as can be but unsure of a better way to so this. Grabbing a handful of clean pages, he folds them as well and rises to his feet.

“You’re more than welcome to come to our next meeting. It should be next Saturday, but it might be postponed due to some… internal issues occurring recently.”

“Oh, I’d love to!” Amanda gushes, sugary. “We both should probably wait until this blows over, though.”

“Eh, it’s not going to take too long. Should be gone in the next few days, right?” Sonny pipes up. He turns to them, smirking; when his eyes catch Amanda’s, he feels a rush of something hard to name, almost like giddiness. “We shouldn’t come around this weekend, but….” He nods his head thoughtfully. “Soon.”

Spalding’s smile is actually gentle, for once. “I would greatly appreciate that, officers. And I appreciate everything you’ve done for us today – hell,” he laughs, “every single day.” He cocks his head to look at Amanda. “Anything else you might need? Do you really have enough to do something about the trannie?”

“Don’t worry,” Carisi says, drawing Spalding’s attention back to him more due to the nausea he feels each time the man’s eyes fall on Amanda’s cleavage than anything else. “We’re going to take care of this. There’ll be some more cops that come around soon, we’ll get them to check this place over for anything that girl could’ve left around, just in case she did manage to leave some bomb or anything similar. They’ll need to come under,” Carisi shrugs, pursing his lips, “a guise.”

Bryson’s eyes are softening with his realization, and he bobs his head along thoughtfully.

“They’ll probably go through Tomlinson’s place – but not really, y’know – then they’ll be free to actually check this place out. That alright?”

Bryson smiles, pleased, and thrusts his hand out to Sonny, forcing him to awkwardly tuck the papers under his arm without dislodging the others he’s hiding under his jacket to accept the handshake. It’s fierce, and Spalding looms closer, smelling of ash and sweat and bitterness.

“Thank you,” Spalding says. “I think we’re going to make a great team.”

Carisi’s smirk isn’t fake this time around, not while he’s imagining Tomlinson in cuffs.

 

* * *

 

 

When they get into the car, Amanda melts into her seat, scowling as she rubs her arms, and Sonny takes a deep breath, passing the baggy over to Amanda along with the stack of papers he brought along. She meets his eyes, smiling thinly, and he reaches out to her without thought, tucking her hair behind her ear. Her smile slips away, confusion coloring her expression.

“Sonny?” Her eyes are such a pretty blue, just like her little girl’s.

“I had a dream that Barba was in bed with me,” he says, the words spilling out on their own accord.

Amanda bursts into laughter, bright and relieved, and Sonny finds himself laughing along with her.

When it dies down, Amanda tucks her phone against her ear, that wan smile returning. “Hey, I need you to send a team down to Tomlinson’s place. Also, can you look and see any reports related to the same building? Looking for something recent, involving a little – a boy. A trans boy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading! Your support means so much!
> 
> If you enjoy my work, consider checking out my other Barisi fic, too. [The Primitive & Sanctified](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12620740/chapters/28754552)


	5. Forgotten Words

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not what I would call subtle,” Olivia tosses in, earning an eyeroll from Rafael and another chuckle from Fin.
> 
> “I was trying a new tactic,” Rafael mutters, dry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally

Fin is guzzling coffee like Carisi has never seen him before; it’s mildly uncomfortable to watch. He has a white mug with the words “ _Best Mom_ ” on it, and Carisi sort of wants to laugh, but also sort of wants to cry, considering he still has a stack of papers tucked in his jacket with blood and hate all over them. Fin eyes him over the rim of his cup, squinting a little. Shame washes over Carisi in a way it hasn’t since he was nine and he had to go to church after a dream about kissing the boy from the apartment down the hall – the one a year or two older, with full lips and tight curls Sonny didn’t even know by name; he’s not sure where it comes for, or why, but it’s there, like a weight on his shoulders.

Fin squints harder. “What the hell happened to you?” He sets his mug on his desk, not looking away. Sonny doesn’t even have the energy to feel self-conscious under the scrutiny, but perhaps that’s for the best. Wouldn’t do him any good, anyway.

“Don’t ask,” Amanda mutters, walking around Carisi to look at the screen of Fin’s computer. “Did you find anything?”

“Gotta give me a little more time,” he replies, sounding a little bitter about it but still eying Sonny. Sonny swallows, holding the papers closer to his chest. “You sure you’re okay there, Carisi?”

He nods, sharp and fitful. “Yeah.”

He’s not.

Amanda’s looking at him now, too, her eyes searching and lips ticking down. “Want me to go down to evidence with you?” She’s kind enough to say it lowly, so he and Fin are liable to be the only ones to hear over the crying of a nearby baby, tucked in her mother’s arms while the woman speaks to a detective. “I’ll be going at some point, anyway. Might as well get it over with.”

“Nah,” he says, taking a step back. His eyes fall to the stack of posters in Amanda’s hands – the clean ones – and his chest grows tight as he thinks about Barba again, and those threats hanging over his head, but that’s nothing new. As of late, it’s like he can’t get Rafael off his mind. “I can take care of it.”

She doesn’t look convinced at all, but also doesn’t object as he turns and walks away.

Being alone allows him to stew in his thoughts, which is both a gift and a curse. Of everything hounding him, first and foremost is that room, dark and dank in the basement of some wretched man’s building, where little Tabitha was pinned and brutalized by a man so much larger than her. He can’t get the image out of his head, and each time he forces it out it seems to return with more power still. His throat is tight and dry. Somehow, the fact that so many are attempting to bury the crime makes it all the worse – all the more painful.

How anyone could knowingly assist in the abuse of a child like this, he doesn’t know. And how many more have they assaulted, raped, threatened, and oppressed? Surely this isn’t their first vic. Tomlinson has a rap sheet a mile long, so what about them? What about these rich, wretched men controlling so many through hate and fear? How far have their words spread, and how much damage have they done on their own? Monsters aren’t born, nor do they suddenly appear. These beasts develop over years, small cruelties growing in number and size, developing with each taste of pain and crime unpunished. In their wake, they leave broken lives and broken people, and, if they didn’t have so much money and so much power, they would have left rap sheets, too.

Abuse of power is threaded throughout this work. Sonny should be used to it by now, really, but the normalcy of it only has his fists clenching tighter.

Then there’s Barba, who has been threatened and challenged so many times, only to now, apparently, face men who wish to take his life once more. He’s too great a man to be taken down by men and women so wretched, and Sonny – no, the team – far too determined to let anyone succeed in their attempts to hurt him. _Kill_ him, more like.

Sonny’s palms are hot, and slick. His jaw aches.

The knowledge that Rafael’s been receiving threats plagues Sonny, like a niggling at the back of his mind he can’t shake. In addition, he can’t stop questioning why Rafael wouldn’t have told him, though he knows, logically, he has no right to expect him to. He _feels_ , however, that he has every right to know when someone close to him is in danger. He has every right to know, because if he doesn’t know, how is he supposed to help? And good lord does he want to help. He’s fucking itching just thinking about it. Knowing and being unable to do anything is going to kill him, it really is.

He shoves his hand into his pocket to hide his clenched fist. Entering the elevator, Sonny presses the button for the basement and leans back against the wall, squeezing his eyes shut. When the doors close, a weight is lifted from his shoulders; maybe it’s just the relief of escaping from sight.

There’s this taste in his mouth, one that’s sour and rank, as if he needs to brush his teeth again. It must be the remnants of all the toxic words he’s spoken today to maintain the ruse. For one wild moment, he fights the urge to stop the elevator and find a bathroom to physically wash his mouth out, the way his mother would when he’d let any curses slip where she could hear. It would be far more fitting now, after the poison that has slipped through his teeth, than it ever was after he said _goddamnit_ in a rush around his mom. Instead, he stays where he is, waiting for the elevator to slide to a stop.

A shot might do. Might wash out the taste and the poison and clear his head. Sounds good. Not the time, though.

Evidence is empty except for one person, assigned to keep an eye on things, as per usual. Franky Moon is sitting behind the counter, eyes hooded as she does a Sudoku puzzle spread out across her desk. She’s cool and calculated about it, steadily filling in numbers in a way that speaks to how much time she’s had to get good at it. She doesn’t look up until he’s right in front of her, pulling out the bagged posters.

Her eyebrows quirk, then her lips draw up; it’s not a happy smile, and it only gets stiffer as she seems to register the words on the pages. “The hell are you bringing me, Sonny?”

“Nothing good.”

She nods, expression saying that’s obvious. “Hey, this about that rape you’ve been working just recently?” she asks, taking the posters and pulling out some paperwork so they can trade.

He hums. “That’s right.”

“Richie wanted to talk to you about that, I think,” she says, referring to one of their lab techs. “S’mthin came up.”

Standing up straight, Sonny stretches his shoulders and rolls his wrists. “Thanks for telling me, Fran.”

He turns his back to her to create the illusion of some privacy and palms his pockets in search for his phone. “You got his number?”

“Yeah, hon. I sure do,” Fran mutters as she scribbles in some info on the paperwork, just small things before Carisi will need to take over. She pauses after a moment, pulling out her own phone to poke around a bit, long nails tapping at the screen; Sonny’s not sure how women get anything done with those things on, God knows he couldn’t. Finding the number, she recites it to Carisi.

He calls immediately, and Richie answers before the second ring.

“Who’s this?” Richie says in favor of an actual greeting.

“Could ask you the same thing,” Sonny teases, accent thick.

“Carisi!” Richie says over the phone, real high and bothered. “That DNA – I already did it. I mean, I ran it, but something was funny.”

 “Uh-huh?” he mutters, pressing the phone tighter to his ear as his heart seems to drown out every other sound.

“I figured you didn’t know, or you would’ve said something – I mean, you specifically noted one assailant, so I just –“

Sonny’s heart lurches in his chest, this nasty bile rising to his mouth to resurrect the taste he was just managing to forget. “Wait, wait – Richie, are you saying there’s more than one perp?” he demands, frustration already making his chest tight, knowing Richie’s going to ramble on and on unless Carisi puts a stop to it.

“It’s not clear yet – DNA isn’t done being tested, y’know? And it’s a real bitch when you’ve got multiple sets of semen, and this old. But I’m… eh, 90 percent sure there’s more than one person’s DNA we picked up from the semen on the underwear.”

Sonny takes in a deep breath. “You sure it’s from semen?”

“Uh… yeah. It’s semen.” Richie is quiet for a minute, then, awkwardly, he tacks on, “Hard to, um, mistake.”

Laughing tightly, Sonny nods his head though Richie has no way to see it. “Thanks, Richie. Thank you.”

Richie falls quiet again, but it’s only for a beat, then he laughs, soft and maybe a little nervous. “No problem, man. Just doing my job.”

“Yeah, of course.”

 

* * *

 

 

Amanda’s eyes widen when she spots Carisi, and she leans back from Fin’s desk to get a better look at him. “Something happen?”

Carisi thinks he probably doesn’t want to know what he looks like in that moment, judging by her expression, and, of course, Fin’s raised eyebrows. Fran had frowned when he faced her after the call, but she’s harder than even Fin, so she had sobered right up in just a moment, giving Sonny the impression he wasn’t as transparent as he apparently is.

“There are two sets of DNA on her panties,” he says in a rush, voice so low he’s not sure how Amanda catches it all, let alone Fin. “We need to go talk to her – as soon as possible.”

Amanda turns, snagging her jacket from her desk, then holds up a finger before hurrying to tell Olivia what they’re doing.

Sonny looks after her for a moment, before feeling a prickle down his spine. He glances to the side, finding Fin still peering up at him with narrowed eyes as he fiddles with a pen between his hands. Despite his expression, he’s relaxed in his chair, leaned back like he owns the place.

Fin lifts the pen, pointing it at him. “Y’know, you don’t gotta prove anything, right?” he asks, his voice near a hum.

Blinking owlishly, Carisi turns to face him. “What do you mean?”

Fin shakes his head, shoulders rising in a weak shrug. “Seems like you’re putting a little too much into this case for it to just be – well, a case.”

Something about his expression must reveal how puzzled he is by the statement, because Fin sighs, leaning forward as if preparing to lay it all out there. He looks to the side, maybe at Benson’s office, tongue dragging over his teeth behind his lips. His hands twist around the pen.

Carisi grabs the nearest chair – Amanda’s – and pulls it up.

“Carisi, you’re a good guy,” he says as soon as Sonny’s ass hits chair, and Sonny can’t help but laugh, bright and honest. It sounds too much like the conversation they had just the other day, but now the tables are turned. Fin looks unamused, but only shakes his head before continuing. “You don’t have to prove anything. You really don’t.”

Sonny ducks his head, still laughing quietly. “It’s not that I’m trying to prove anything.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s just….” He pauses, thinking about Rafael, and how he responded when Sonny confessed to it being personal. He laughs again, the noise thin. “Uh, I don’t know how to explain it. I tried to explain it to Barba, but I mucked it up.”

Fin snorts. “I can imagine how that would go.”

A quaking laugh escapes him, and he wipes a hand over his face. “Yeah, yeah. But, uh….” He shrugs. “I care about the people around here, y’know?”

Dragging his fingers over his jaw, Fin huffs, a faint smile ghosting across his lips. “That much is clear.”

Carisi looks at him – really looks at him, and the brown of his eyes and the furrow of his brow. He’s sort of fatherly in a funny sort of way, and Sonny’s not sure why he’s only now noticing it.

“Carisi,” Amanda calls. “Let’s go.”

The hints of a smile turn into something teasing. “Get on with it,” Fin tells him. “Catch that bastard.”

_Those bastards_ , Carisi thinks, but doesn’t say it aloud.

 

* * *

 

 

Tabitha appears even smaller when in a hospital bed. Memory didn’t do her thinness justice, which somehow makes the second time seeing her more shocking to Carisi’s senses. She’s pale and washed out, though it’s unclear if it’s from the harsh light and the pallid room or the illness alone. Her eyes keep drifting closed, as if it is too difficult to keep them open for long, though she does her very best to be attentive to Sonny and Amanda, greeting them sweetly and asking them how they are, as if she’s not near death. It reminds Sonny of Jesse when she’s trying so hard to stay awake but just can’t; his chest hurts.

“Oh, before I forget,” he says, producing a stuffed cat from behind his back. He grabbed it from the hospital’s shop before running up here, and intended to give it to her right away, but seeing her had shaken him more than anticipated. Her eyes glint, widening for the first time since they arrived, and a smile cracks across her face. Sonny returns the smile, gently placing the stuffed toy in her hands when she tiredly reaches, too weak to really manage it. “Just thought you might like something to keep you company while you get better.”

“Thank you, sir.” She’s still smiling, though it sounds as if her voice is fading. “It’s soft,” she tacks on, thumbing the ear of the plushie. Her eyes slide closed once more, though her thumb continues to move.

A hand claps down on Sonny’s shoulder, and he jumps, turning to face Price. He’s trying not to cry, lips set in a thin line and eyes very sharp despite the sheen. “Thank you, officer. I appreciate it.”

Swallowing, Sonny nods. “It’s the least we can do.”

Just behind Price’s shoulder, Amanda smiles a sad smile and ducks her head.

“Mr. Price,” he says, slightly lower. “Would you be alright with Rollins talking to Tabitha while you and I chat outside?”

He glances back at Amanda, who looks up to direct another weak smile at him, then to Tabitha who has begun to doze, her head tipping back against the pillows. Looking back to Sonny, he inclines his head.

“If she needs to stop talking, you’ll stop?” he asks, looking from Amanda to Sonny and back again.

“Of course,” Amanda murmurs.

Price nods with more vigor. “Alright. Outside then, officer?”

Sonny follows him out, until they’re a few feet from the door, past the police officer that’s been stationed there.

“Did you talk to Tommy Ray?” Price grunts. His hands are shoved in his pockets, shoulders rigid. “What’d he say?”

“We didn’t actually speak to him, but we checked out his apartment.”

Price’s head jerks up, eyes sharp as they scan over Sonny’s face.

“We talked to Spalding, and we got some more evidence. I’m sorry but I can’t share the details. There’s something we need to talk about, now, though.”

“Yeah?” he rasps, then clears his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck.

Sonny steels himself, taking a moment to look at the pale yellow of the walls, then meets Price’s eyes without shaking. He wouldn’t want the officer to shake, if he were in Price’s position. “There’s reason to believe –“ He stops himself, swallowing and glancing down. “Sir,” he says, softer. “There’s reason to believe there may have been more than one assailant.”

Price stills. His eyes are dull and wide, staring sightlessly at Carisi. “What?”

Carisi shuffles his feet, struggling to maintain eye contact. “There may have been more than one man. Who….”

His bottom lip begins to tremble. “No,” he whispers, soft. He shakes his head, clasping a hand over his mouth. Sonny closes his eyes, unable to watch as Price drags the same hand over his face and into his hair, pulling to punish himself. “What? No.”

“It’s not for sure. We just need to check with Tabitha,” he explains, gentle.

“No,” he insists, a frantic edge to his voice. “She- Tabitha wouldn’t lie about this. She’s not – She’s not like other women – like the women you guys must deal with. She wouldn’t make shit up or hide it or-or lie. She’s no liar. My baby – she wouldn’t _lie_.”

“Mr. Price, no one is calling your daughter a liar,” Sonny murmurs, hands finding Price’s shoulders before he begins to pace the way his twitching suggests he longs to. “Mr. Price, I know your daughter wouldn’t keep anything from us without reason. Sometimes, when somebody has gone through an assault, they might leave out some details. It doesn’t mean they’re a liar. It doesn’t mean your daughter has even done anything wrong.”

Price stares at him, distrusting the way animals are when cornered. His eyes keep darting around as if he’s expecting Carisi’s face to change in some dramatic way. “Why?”

He takes a deep breath. “There are a lot of reasons: shame, fear, or….” He shrugs. “She might just think it doesn’t make a difference. I don’t know.”

Price finally looks down.

“Mr. Price, she’s not in trouble.”

He nods, clearly far away.

“Mr. Price, really. It’s going to be okay.”

Price breaks with a gasp, and suddenly he’s sobbing and grabbing at Sonny’s arms, though not pulling him closer, just leaning heavily against him. His head hangs, and he doesn’t speak, just cries and cries.

Swallowing, Sonny squeezes his shoulders and supports him the best he can.

 

* * *

 

 

They sit in the car for a long time after that. Amanda has taken the driver’s seat, a rare thing, though Sonny’s never questioned why. He thinks it’s more a reflection of his character than Amanda’s, really, but maybe, after the day they’ve had, she needs a little control the same way Sonny needs to give it up.

Her hands rest near the bottom of the wheel, not moving, and her head is propped against the seat, so her pale throat is on display. Her eyes are open, peering out the windshield, unseeing. He feels like he’s watching something he shouldn’t be; it’s too intimate, too much. When she breathes out, it’s like her entire body goes lax.

Carisi sits next to her, leaned back to mirror her position, but his head is still turned so he can look at her. “What did she say?” He asks because he must, not because he can stand to know just what that little girl went through. He’s already nauseous considering the possibilities.

Amanda’s eyes dart down, her thumbs brushing the leather of the wheel. Her eyebrows tick together, then her lips purse, and her tongue slides over her bottom lip very carefully. “I made her cry.”

Sonny sighs, a bitter warmth easing through his chest. “Amanda….”

“I know, I know. Just… that little girl….” She shakes her head, closing her eyes. Her mouth is tight. “When I asked, she immediately began to shut down and cry. But… she pulled through,” she says, turning to face him. Her eyes are distant. “She denied it.”

Sonny sighs, tilting his head back once more. “Alright.”

Amanda’s sigh echoes his just a moment later. “Lucky her dad didn’t get mad over it.”

Humming, Sonny mutters, “I think… he understands.”

Turning to meet his eyes, she gives him her most disbelieving look. “Sonny, he could have hurt her himself. That might be why she’s so adamant about not saying anything, and why the father didn’t come to the police.”

Sonny’s phone rings before he can continue – can explain how utterly broken Price had been. He shoots Amanda a lopsided, wan smile, pulling it from his pocket. Glancing at the caller ID, he does a doubletake, puzzled.

He answers, holding the phone to his ear. “Barba?”

“Carisi?” he lilts, mocking Sonny’s confused tone, though not unkindly. It’s just that rough edge that Rafael has, the kind that serves the same purpose as thorns or the prickles on a cactus or something. Sonny tries not to think about what Rafael might say if he ever gave away such thoughts.

Sonny tilts his head, glancing at Amanda to find she’s smirking, if only a little. His mind immediately goes to the fears lingering from coming out to her, which he _had_ managed to bury in favor of focusing on the case. Does she think they’re together or something? Even if she didn’t know, or they were of different sexes, it’s hard to deny that the situations they’ve found themselves in as of late would likely make it seem as if they were together or at least interested. Particularly the incident with the almost-hand-holding. Or that dream he told her about.

It’s hard to deny that dreaming about being tucked in bed with Rafael gives that impression.

It’s not that Sonny would be particularly bothered by the assumption that he’s attracted to Barba; he’s not that ashamed of his sexuality, or influenced by assumptions, at least to that degree (water off a duck’s back), and it’s just Amanda. It’s not as if Barba isn’t handsome, funny, successful – it’s not as if the others in the office don’t look at him with flirty smiles or women sipping coffee on break don’t whisper about his smirks and laugh dirtily. There’s no shame in him acknowledging it, too.

Right?

But he doesn’t have feelings like that for Barba. Romantic ones. (His hand begins to tingle again. It’s where Barba’s hand had brushed his so gently. He rubs his thumb over the back of his hand roughly, pushing it from his mind.) And Barba is more than likely straight.

He’s already expressed more concern with Sonny’s safety when it comes to the rumors of his involvement, but Sonny mentioning it and Rafael actually hearing someone joke about their involvement are two very different things. Sonny’s never been around a straight man _happy_ about such things. He can only imagine this hurting their relationship. If Rafael knew how people really viewed their friendship, that brush of their hands or the dinners in his office would stop. And Carisi doesn’t want them to. The last thing Carisi wants is for it all to stop.

He looks away from Amanda with a deep breath.

(He doesn’t have romantic feelings for Rafael. He doesn’t, because he can’t. He doesn’t know his preferences, just for starters, and they work together. Rafael’s friendship is so meaningful to him, too, he can’t put that in danger for anything.)

“What’s up?” Sonny asks, fiddling with the end of his tie. It takes everything in him not to wince at how stupid he sounds.

“Dinner.”

Sonny’s eyes snap open. “’Dinner?’ Like, with me? And you?”

Amanda sits up in her seat, leaning forward so Sonny can see her wide eyes peering at him suggestively. He feels pink in the cheeks. He rubs at his knuckles compulsively.

Rafael laughs, huffing and sharp. “No, I called to ask someone else out, obviously.”

_Ask someone else out_. Sonny repeats the words over in his mind, then mouths them. _Ask someone else out_. _Obviously_.

He glances at Amanda. Her eyebrows inch upwards. He shrugs helplessly.

“Carisi?” Rafael murmurs.

Carisi blinks rapidly, trying to determine if that uncertainty in Rafael’s voice was real or just his imagination. Probably imagination. Rafael never sounds uncertain – never _is_ uncertain.

“I’m sorry, is this a bad time?” Rafael asks, sounding perfectly sincere rather than teasing for once.

“Tonight?” Sonny asks, hushed. He clears his throat. “Like, _to_ night?”

There’s a beat of silence. Amanda is holding her breath, and even the streets seem to calm, the honking going quiet and the stream of people outside growing thinner. Sonny tugs at his tie fitfully.

“It’s, uh, okay if you can’t do it tonight,” he says, trying to remain gentle. He’s not sure why he should need to be gentle. “I’d like to. Whenever.”

“You know that place you always like to go?” Rafael responds instead of answering directly. “The burger place.”

Sonny lets out a breathy laugh, but quickly quiets. “You hate it. Say the burgers are more meat than grease.”

“Because they are,” Rafael says simply, smirk in his voice.

Rafael Barba isn’t the type to do something he doesn’t want to, even if it’s as simple as a dinner at a restaurant he finds distasteful; maybe he needs something to complain about. Sonny catches his bottom lip between his teeth, considering this information for a moment. As much as he likes teasing Rafael about not liking the burgers, he doesn’t ever force him to eat there. He has no interest in making Rafael uncomfortable, and it’s not like he can’t go on his own time. Unless this is for Sonny. But it can’t be that.

(It can be that. It is that. He doesn’t want to let himself hope.)

“Then why…?”

There’s a slight hum from the other side of the phone, static and thin; maybe he’s sighing. “You’re the detective,” he offers plainly. “You tell me.”

Sonny stares at Amanda, hoping she’ll somehow know the answer to the unspoken question. She pulls a face, shoulders jerking in a tight shrug.

“I, uh….” He falters, mouth dry. _I think you might just – maybe – be asking me out_ , is what comes to mind, quickly followed by, _I could be imagining things_. _I_ am _imagining things_.

Amanda waves her hands at him as if she can make the words spring from his lips.

“We did say we would have dinner with the team tonight, did we not?” Rafael supplies, oddly dull. There’s no charm, nor is there a prickle, and it makes Sonny’s chest do something funny. “It’s been so busy it slipped my mind to ask Olivia to come with us tonight, the way I said I would, so I wouldn’t fault you for forgetting as well.”

“Oh,” Sonny breathes. Only now does it register just how hard his heart is beating, as something seems to cave in his chest, quieting it – slowing it. He blinks owlishly, looking around him to find the world feels very different in comparison to how it felt only a moment ago. More present, maybe; or perhaps he’s the one that’s more present, and the one who slipped away in the first place. “Uh, yeah. I’m sorry. I forgot.”

“No need to apologize.” His voice still has that dullness, and his words that gentleness, from before. It’s as if he’s covering something else with it. “Do you have time to go? We can always push it off to another night.”

Licking his lips, Sonny clears his throat. “I’ve got time, and Amanda is here – I can ask her right now.”

When he faces her, he finds her expression softening into something sympathetic and somber. It makes his skin itch with the need to move, to get some space, privacy.

“You wanna go to dinner tonight, Rollins?” he asks instead of opening the door and climbing out of the car the way he wants to.

Her lips quirk, the smile much smaller than before. “Sure.”

“She’s in,” Sonny informs him. “We’re heading back to the precinct right now, so I can ask Fin then.”

“Alright, you might as well ask Liv too, since you’ll actually be there, and I won’t.”

“Yeah, I can do that.”

Silence falls between them. Sonny should hang up – say something _then_ hang up, but either way hanging up is definitely what he needs to do right now. And yet he sits there, listening to nothing on the end of the line and imagining it’s Rafael’s breath.

“I’ll see you tonight,” Rafael says finally. The image of Rafael pulling a trigger – a mercy kill – rises to the forefront of Sonny’s mind unbidden.

Sonny’s fucked up somehow but, for once, Rafael isn’t calling him out on it. That only makes it worse.

“Yeah, tonight,” Carisi echoes faintly.

The last thing he hears is Rafael’s chuckle before he hangs up.

Pulling his phone away from his ear, he stares down at it for a long moment. It’s hard to know what just happened.

“Are you alright, Sonny?” Amanda asks gently.

“What? Yeah, of course. C’mon, we should head back. You still wanna drive? I can do it if you don’t.”

Lips twitching, she shakes her head. “It’s alright. Just sit back and relax,” she jokes, eyes crinkling. “Oh, and where are we going to dinner?”

Sonny tells her, and she pauses, key hovering next to the ignition. “ _Oh_ ,” she says, low and thoughtful, staring somewhere near Sonny’s knees. She looks up at him, lips pursed. “Oh.”

He pretends to not know what that means.

 

* * *

 

 

Someone bumps into Sonny, shoulder to shoulder. Jolting slightly where he stands, Sonny swings his head around and stares. He’s somehow both surprised and unsurprised to find Rafael there, arm brushing his own. Sonny doesn’t move away, not for a second, and neither does Rafael.

Rafael is warm.

Rafael cuts his eyes at him, something close to a smirk hovering around his lips as if he knows just what Sonny is thinking.

Sonny finds himself glancing around the precinct as if in search of witnesses to his highly atypical behavior. No one is watching them, however, and why should they? There’s nothing inappropriate about this, except, perhaps, how very close they’re pressed, and the way Sonny’s eyes are drawn to the lines of his lips.

(Would they part beneath Sonny’s? Would Rafael laugh against his own lips? Would he take control?)

The sudden thought has his stomach swooping ridiculously. It has him thinking about his first kiss with a boy again, of the chocolate milk, and of the Rafael in his dreams. The Rafael that was like breath and velvet beneath his touch, that shared his bed.

(They would part. Rafael would kiss with his silver tongue the same way he fights with it: It would be precise and perfect. He’d taste of tea. Sonny would be helpless but to respond in turn.)

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Rafael says, voice low, and it does real bad things to Sonny. Bad things like make him shiver the way he did the first time a woman ran her hand down his spine, skin against skin, nails tracing along his bones. But now he’s imagining what it would be like to have Rafael’s fingers on him like that, and what a wicked thing that is.

(Would Rafael be soft? Would claw his nails down Sonny’s back, or would he be so, so gentle? Would he want to cuddle? Or to hold hands? Would he want to do it again and again?)

“What’s wrong?” The teasing is gone now. When Sonny meets his eyes again, Rafael’s face is stiff. After a moment, Rafael leans away, breaking the contact at their shoulders.

Sonny wishes desperately to be a braver man, the type that could pull Rafael closer again. But he’s not a brave man, and this isn’t the place to come onto his colleague. Not that there’s ever really a time or place to do such a thing, but this must be the worst circumstance possible.

“Sorry,” Sonny mutters. He turns to face Rafael, very carefully encroaching on Rafael’s space in hopes of finding acceptance. Their shoulders brush again. Rafael’s gaze doesn’t waver, and he doesn’t pull away; this is probably the closest thing to acceptance he’s going to get from Rafael. Some of the tension leaves Sonny in a sigh. “Thank you.”

Rafael’s eyes widen fractionally, one brow slightly raised as if he caught himself before it could go any further. Back of his neck hot, Sonny reaches back to clasp his hand over it to hide his blush. If Rafael spots a blush, he’s kind enough not to mention it, or to let his eyes linger on it for too long.

“For?”

Sonny looks down at their feet, focusing on how shiny Rafael’s leather shoes are. He wonders, distantly, what socks he has on today. Considering the blue of his tie, Sonny suspects it’s the ones of the same color, with the stripes of beige.

Looking back, he’s not sure when he became so familiar with Rafael’s outfits.

“I appreciate you putting up with me this week, y’know? I’ve been, uh, jumpy, I guess.” He clears his throat, tightening his grip on his own neck. He still can’t find it in himself to meet Rafael’s eyes, though he feels them on him. “I just – I guess you already know. From the other day,” he concludes, thinking back to his little breakdown in Barba’s office.

Rafael had surprised him, then. Sonny thinks his expectations of Rafael – of a cold reaction to his emotions, or something similar – weren’t wholly fair. Maybe Rafael’s expectations weren’t fair, either. Maybe they’re even.

Not hesitating for a moment, Rafael’s hand closes around Sonny’s upper arm. His touch is gentler than his words; Sonny is beginning to expect much of him is gentler than his words.

“If you need to cancel –“

Sonny shakes his head, and Rafael cuts himself off.

“I need this,” he says simply. He meets Rafael’s eyes. How did he never realize they were so green? Standing in the middle of the usual chaos is hardly the time to be dumbstruck by them, but here he is, unable to look away while something winds up in his chest like a toy being drawn tighter and tighter, preparing to whirr away.

Staring for a long moment, Sonny takes in the color, then the line of Rafael’s nose, and the shape of his lips. He’s no longer sure if he’s saying he needs time with the group, just relaxing, or if he needs Rafael alone.

Heart in his throat, he decides it may be a little of both.

Rafael nods. He doesn’t need an explanation, but Sonny finds himself itching to give him one despite the stubborn tightness in his throat. Surely, he can’t be content without anything; Rafael’s not the type. Perhaps that’s what’s really getting to Sonny: He knows Rafael well enough to recognize when he’d be pushing for more, that is, unless he thinks he’s figured it out himself. That’s a terrifying possibility.

“Are you all ready to go?” Rafael asks. His hand is still on Sonny’s arm and shows no sign of moving. Sonny is both immeasurably grateful and stressed by it. “I can wait in Liv’s office if you need to finish things up.”

Turning away, Sonny watches as Amanda begins to shut down her laptop and Fin stands from his desk, popping his back as he does. With a huff of a laugh, he looks back to Rafael and smiles.

“Wanna ride with us?” he asks in place of an answer. “Better than paying for a taxi, right?”

For a moment, Rafael seems more taken aback than he did when Sonny thanked him. “Alright.”

Smile stretching wider, Sonny nods. With that, he goes to gather his things, fumbling a moment with his coat he’s so anxious.

A few minutes later, all bundled up, the lot of them press into the elevator, Sonny leading the way with Rafael on his heels so the two of them end up pressed close when the others file in as well. Sonny is warm in his coat, and with Rafael nearly tucked against his side he’s all the warmer. Sonny feels oddly tall beside Rafael’s side, though their difference in height is relatively small. Despite the late hour and the long day, Rafael still smells rich and musky with his cologne. Helpless to his own instinct, Sonny closes his eyes and takes a deep breath through his nose.

It may be his imagination, but he could swear Rafael presses closer.

When they get out of the building, Olivia motions down the block, looking at Rafael. Fin is already heading her direction, head tilted back to look at the sky and the emerging stars. Rafael lingers by Sonny’s side though, glancing between him and Amanda as if uncertain if Sonny really meant his invitation.

“He’ll ride with us,” Sonny pipes up, eager to make sure it happens, and to keep that little furrow from Rafa’s brow. He keeps his eyes on Olivia, hyperaware of Barba’s presence beside him and all the attention directed at him.

Olivia’s eyes brighten, expression lifting. Her eyes shift to Rafael, crinkling around the corners as they do in such an expression of fondness it leaves Sonny a little stricken. “Alright. See you there.”

As he turns, he thinks he bumps into Amanda, lifting his hand to steady her only to realize she’s purposefully pressed against him, now peering up at him through her lashes with a smirk on her face. Brows furrowed, Sonny twists his neck to glance in Rafael’s direction. Rafael is peering at them out of the corner of his eyes, but he quickly looks away when he catches Sonny’s shift in attention.

The other day, Rafael had made it very clear that he assumed Sonny and Amanda to be a couple of some sort and seemed peeved by it. Something heavy and cold settling in the pit of his stomach, Sonny instinctively hops back, desperate to create distance between himself and Amanda as if that can prove something. Rafael’s eyebrows twitch and Amanda huffs, the sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.

“Sonny?” Amanda lilts, hands on her hips. She looks ridiculously like his sister in that moment.

“Sorry, you just surprised me.”

Amanda’s brows furrow and her lips twist into a confused smile only for the expression to fall away a moment later. “Oh! Oh, this is –“ She cuts herself off, pointing at Sonny awkwardly. What she’s trying to communicate really isn’t as clear as she seems to think; or maybe she knows and just doesn’t care.

Turning on her heel, she reaches out to Rafael, hooking her arm with his. He smirks, a question in his eyes though he doesn’t speak. “C’mon, Rafael.”

Sometimes working with detectives is the worst.

Rafael casts a surreptitious glance over his shoulder, smirking at Sonny, then moves just a touch closer to Amanda’s side, letting their shoulders brush the way he had with Sonny’s. “Making him jealous?” he asks, just loud enough for Sonny to hear from behind them as they walk.

Pressure is suddenly there, in Sonny’s throat and along his tongue, as if there are words there that need to be released but Sonny has no clue how to, no clue what he’d actually say if he let himself. _No_ , maybe. Or, _It was never her_. _I wouldn’t lie_. At least not to Rafael, and not about this.

It’s Amanda’s turn to send Sonny a look, smile stretching wider. Her eyes are so bright, practically radiating her amusement and love. The pressure eases, and his chest feels warm with his love for her.

“Not of who you think,” Amanda teases. Her eyes crinkle.

When they get to the car, Amanda releases Rafael, moving to the back door.

“You can ride up front,” Rafael objects, motioning to the passenger door.

Amanda just grins, sly as hell. The warmth in Sonny’s chest has spread to his throat and face, but it’s not an unpleasant feeling. Sonny ends up driving with Rafael by his side, and Amanda’s nose pointedly in her phone. He can’t help but chuckle, breathy and disbelieving.

He should have known Amanda would make for a good wingwoman.

Judging by the barely-there smirk on Rafael’s face, he knows exactly what she’s doing and why Sonny’s smile is so wide it aches. Still, he doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he just seems pleased. It has Sonny’s shoulders going lax and his breaths coming easier.

“You’re far too pleased,” Rafael murmurs a moment later, shifting to lean into Sonny’s space if only slightly, and Sonny laughs a little louder, thinking about how he had a similar thought about Rafael just a moment before. “About getting your way.”

Sonny’s smile only grows. “Pot, kettle.”

 

* * *

 

 

Lacie beams at Sonny when he comes in, tablet clutched to her chest. “Hi, Sonny!” she chirps, taking in the rest of Sonny’s colleagues as they come in as well. She takes a deep breath, smiling wider. “We have a booth in the back – would that do?”

“Yeah, thanks.”

There’s a huff of a laugh, and then Barba is there, elbow bumping against his own. “You come here that often?”

“Sisters taught me to be nice and make friends with waiters.” He shrugs, smiling and ducking his head. “If I have a, uh, craving for a good burger this is the place I go. They’re used to me here.”

“You get those cravings often, then,” Rafael teases. It’s not a question; it reminds Sonny that Rafael is damn sharp himself, detective or no.

Biting his lip, Sonny laughs with him. “Yeah, guess I do.”

Rafael looks at him closely, but Sonny tries to ignore it, at least for the moment.

“Might be a tight fit,” Lacie says, smiling apologetically. “We’re really packed tonight.”

It’s an understatement. Lots of teens come here to get their shakes, and tonight there are at least six kids hanging around, laughing and enjoying themselves. There’s a group of workers that have clearly just gotten off for the weekend, not unlike their own group, and they’ve gathered around a couple of tables at the center of the room, stealing fries from each other and laughing all the while. It’s good to see after the day Sonny had.

“It’s fine – don’t worry about it,” Sonny assures her, and slips into the booth first, taking up a menu when Lacie sets them out. He’s unsurprised yet still thrilled when Rafael takes a seat next to him, cutting his eyes to peer look at Sonny as if expecting something. “Sure this is alright with you?” Sonny confirms, motioning to the restaurant as Fin and Olivia sit across from them.

Rafael finally looks away, eyes flickering over the room. “It will have to do,” he sighs. There’s the prickle again, but Sonny thinks it’s just for looks; maybe that’s all it ever is.

From his other side, Amanda laughs. They both look up as Amanda prods at Rafael’s shoulder, getting him to move closer to Sonny so she can join them in the booth. Sliding closer until their sides are touching, Rafael turns his eyes back to Sonny, searching his face.

Does he think Sonny is going to object? To show signs of discomfort? He’s not – not at all.

“So, Sonny,” Fin says, and Sonny jerks his head up. He’d been so wrapped up in Rafael he hadn’t noticed the knowing smiles directed at them, and now he feels flushed. Fin’s eyes crinkle; his expression is warm with his amusement, but not cruel. “It’s been a while since you brought us here,” he continues. “What’s good?”

Eager for a distraction, and maybe revealing his embarrassment a little too clearly, Sonny prattles about this and that served here before Lacie returns to take their drink orders.

The whole time, Sonny is hyper aware of Rafael’s presence, the warmth against his side, and the scent of him. He finds himself questioning when he was last this close to Rafael only to realize this isn’t that irregular an occurrence, he usually just doesn’t think about it. Last time they all got together, Sonny had sat next to Rafael on Olivia’s couch, arm slung behind him; usually when they go out to eat, Rafael will sit across from him; and then at work, when they’re standing next to each other or when Sonny lingers in his space while he’s bowed over paperwork.

They’ve been close all this time, and Sonny wasn’t even conscious of it. Now that he is, however, all he wants is to get closer.

Rafael is looking through the menu, relaxed between Sonny and Amanda, head resting against the booth, so he manages to look smaller and more vulnerable than Sonny ever recalls him being. There’s no prickles to be seen in this moment, with Rafael’s eyes lidded and his hair a little mussed. It’s pointless to pretend he’s anything but handsome.

Just as it’s pointless to pretend this is totally platonic.

_A love that’s snuck upon him in the night_. That’s what this is, honestly and truly. Sonny thought he’d realized the extent of it yesterday, with Rafael in his car, sharing his air, and looking so damn lovely all the while. He’d been soft yet sharp as a tack, as always, and how could anyone not fall in love with him? Especially Sonny, so weak to pretty men in pretty ties who roll up their sleeves to show off their forearms.

Fear had curled its fingers around his heart then, at the thought of losing Rafael. Sonny knows what happens when you come onto a straight coworker, even subtly, and that’s the last thing he wants to deal with. He loves this job and loves Rafael. Loves him in all senses, he’s beginning to suspect, though if he was asked a week ago he may have simply said it was platonic – would have lied to himself and everyone else an hour ago and said the same. Friendship first, though, so he would never take it further.

But here’s Rafael, handsome as hell in the low light, with his hair starting to fall out of place. Here’s Rafael, who was asking Sonny on a date, of that he’s now sure. He’s probably been asking, or wanting to ask, for a while, and Sonny’s been too oblivious to realize.

Acting isn’t going to ruin things.

Smiling at himself, Sonny leans back and lets his hand fall from the table to Rafael’s thigh – not too high, not too low. Rafael’s eyes snap open, but he doesn’t look down, instead blinking at the menu. Lip caught between his teeth, Sonny forces himself to keep his eyes on his own menu, despite already knowing what he wants, and to listen to Fin’s story about the man who he had to see in the hospital today who had been severely wounded when he made the mistake of slapping a female pro-wrestler’s ass.

Maybe this is a dick move of him. No, it is. The only real way for Rafael to get him to stop is to draw attention to it happening or to make a scene. What if he was wrong? What if this really is all his imagination? His desire for Rafael could very well twist around his perceptions.

Swallowing, Carisi quickly pulls away. He uses the hand to scratch the back of his head, then moves to hold his menu with both.

He can feel Rafael looking at him, but he ignores it, unsure what he can do now that he’s crossed the line. His head feels light and his stomach heavy by the time Lacie comes back with their drinks and takes their orders.

Happy to have something to focus on, Sonny gulps down a long drink of water, keeping his hands around the glass when he sets it down.

“His face was _busted_ ,” Fin concludes, still talking about the wrestler, rubbing his hands together. “Not sure what he expected. Shouldn’t mess with someone bigger than you.”

Amanda snorts, swirling her ice in her coke. “Shouldn’t mess with _anyone_.”

“Amen to that,” Sonny says automatically.

Olivia cracks a grin, her eyes on Rafael though Sonny gets the distinct feeling it’s him she’s smiling about. Maybe Rafael has told Olivia about Sonny, or vice versa. Just what they would say about him, he’s not sure he wants to know; just considering it has him lowering his gaze to his glass, eyes on the sweat slipping down its side. A few days ago, he’d figure it would be all annoyance and reluctant fondness shared between them, but now he’s not sure. The real difference is that he wishes it would be more.

He could laugh, he’s been so oblivious.

“You’ve been awfully happy lately, Fin,” Amanda teases, fingering the straw in her cup. Fin tilts his head, lips pursed, and casts a bemused look her way. She looks like the cat that got the crème, lopsided grin and warm eyes.

He rolls his eyes, leaning back in his seat. A smile ghosts across his lips despite his attempts to look as indignant as possible. “Oh, I know what you’re thinking. Unlike some people, it’s not love that’s got me –“ He waves his hand vaguely at Rafael and Sonny, but maybe that’s Sonny’s imagination. They’re sitting right across from each other, so it’s probably not directed at them at all, just a matter of placement.

It’s probably nothing – he _knows_ it’s nothing. His awareness of Rafael’s body, so close and so warm, suddenly becomes painfully intense. He’s _there_. He smells so damn rich like cloves and tea, so close yet so far, like some wicked temptation. Sonny can smell him, can feel how he’s shifting his leg.

(If Sonny has finally picked up on Rafael’s flirtations and interest, and his _own_ interest, he has little doubt the others aren’t far behind if they haven’t already. They know in a way Sonny himself hasn’t allowed himself to know, more likely than not.)

Sonny takes a long drink. Focus on the smell of food, of cheap fries, the laughter from across the room. Olivia still has this look on her face that Sonny’s only used to seeing around her little boy. Amanda’s grinning like a Cheshire cat. Fin is shaking his head.

Rafael is –

Rafael leans back, arm slung over Sonny’s shoulders. He’s so stunned by Rafael’s ability to pull it off with grace despite being shorter, that he finds himself staring stupidly. Giving Sonny’s shoulder a light squeeze, he cocks his head, gaze on Fin. He looks like a million bucks in his grey suit and pretty, blue tie. He’s so out of place in this cheap burger joint and yet, with how he’s sitting, legs crossed, and body relaxed, he could easily own the place.

(God, Sonny’s a fool. Such a fool.)

Sonny could kiss him, he thinks, and takes a deeper gulp of water.

“Feeling gay?” Rafael supplies, smirking wickedly.

Sonny coughs, nearly spilling water all over himself, and Amanda throws her head back, laughing so hard half the restaurant looks.

He’s been hitting on him. This entire time, Rafael Barba, man of contempt and wonder, has been _hitting_ on him. God, Rafael has been flirting, and he _loves_ it.

Pleasure coils in his chest and his stomach, cheeks heating up. He sets the glass down, letting it clink and watching the ice slosh around, then uses the sweat from it that’s slicked his hand to wet his forehead. Rafael’s wanted him this entire time – been asking him out. He’s a pathetic excuse for a detective to have missed it; clearly the others haven’t.

Rafael’s arm is warm and heavy over his shoulders, a pleasant, grounding weight. His gaze, on the other hand, is a pressure Sonny believes comparable to Atlas’s experience with the earth bearing down on him. Sonny still meets his eyes, too giddy to be shy or cowardly now.

“You alright, Carisi?” Olivia murmurs, gentle.

“Yeah,” he replies, not looking away from Rafael as he does. “Just anaged to surprise me.”

Rafael hums, waving a hand as if to brush it away. He looks away first, carefully carefree. His arm, however, remains right where it is around Sonny’s shoulders.

Fin is chuckling, real low and easy, as unbothered as Rafael is. Sonny, on the other hand, feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest and Amanda is peering at him around Rafael, eyes wide. Sonny’s too frazzled to even shrug.

“Not sure ‘ _gay_ ’ is the word I’d go for,” Fin decides, voice still colored with his amusement. “Something more along the lines of ‘ _dopey_.’”

“Maybe a little ‘ _soppy_ ,’” Olivia pipes up, low and gentle.

Rafael’s fingers brush along the line of his shoulder blade, the pressure barely there. Dizziness washes over him, and the safe feeling that comes with being tucked between Rafael and the wall wavers in the face of his anxiety.

Despite his attempts to hide what he is, they’ve figured it out all on their own. His friends, his colleagues, his coworkers, his boss. They know. Maybe he’s just that obvious, or maybe Amanda said something, or –

Rafael’s fingers slide to the back of Sonny’s neck. Everyone does him the courtesy of looking away, Amanda, Fin, and Olivia returning to the conversation about the pro-wrestler with ease.

Twisting his head so he’s speaking directly into Sonny’s ear, voice low, Rafael asks, “Too much, then?”

“You know?” Sonny croaks instead of answering; the words just spill out despite his anxiety, and all intentions to keep it in. _Of course he knows_. What a question.

Rafael’s grip on his neck tightens fractionally and he draws back to look at Sonny, brows furrowed. Seemingly learning whatever there is to know from the bob of Sonny’s throat and the tenseness around his lips, he leans closer once more. “Men who come into my office and lean enticingly over my desk typically aren’t heterosexual, I’ve found.”

Sonny laughs, shocked and a little panicked, then clasps a hand over his mouth like a child. Olivia casts a look at him, lips curling gently. He almost starts laughing again, but swallows it back down, returning his hand to his lap to clutch at his own thigh.

“Nor are men who slide their hands up my thighs,” Rafael adds, a little lower – a little _breathier_.

Something wicked and warm crawls up Sonny’s spine in response. He’s looking at the glossy tabletop, but his mind is on Rafael, and how that voice could go lower and breathier with the right encouragement.

Rafael makes a soft, considering noise. “But please, correct me if I’ve somehow misunderstood.”

“Nah – Nah, you – Yeah, I didn’t really –“

“Use your words,” Rafael teases, thumbing at Sonny’s hairline until Sonny’s breath leaves him in a rush. It’s hard not to openly shiver.

“I didn’t mean to. The – uh, desk part.”

Rafael laughs, hushed, and Sonny’s grip on his thighs tightens. “The others weren’t supposed to know, then?”

“Amanda knows,” he mumbles, swallowing.

“Trust me, I figured that one out on the drive over.” He scratches lightly at the back of Sonny’s neck. He takes a breath; one Sonny can _feel_. “I’m sorry,” he continues, somber. “I should have been more respectful.”

“Nah, it’s alright. You just thought they, uh, were caught up.”

He considers it for a moment, mind going to the soft smiles directed their way and the look in their friends’ eyes. The lingering tension drains from his shoulders, letting him lean into Rafael’s touch. For all of the fear that’s built up over years of glares, sharp words, and the threat of danger or death, there’s a great deal more trust he holds in this group.

_You’re a good guy_ , Fin had said, just this morning. Had he known then? He’d seen the brush of Rafael’s knuckles against Sonny’s own and heard the rumors and rough jokes for months now. He assumed they’re _in love_. He’s not been bothered by it, clearly, and in hindsight Sonny’s not sure why he ever thought Fin would be.

Olivia looks at him now in much the same way Amanda had after he came out, as if she’s attempting to convey all the warm feelings she holds for him in one look. Again, he’s not sure where his anxiety over their rejection came from, especially in the case of Olivia, considering how remarkably open-minded and kind she is.

She smiles at him now the way he’s only seen her smile at Rafael, private and safe.

Sonny smiles back before looking to Rafael. His eyes are so damn beautiful, and his lips are parted slightly; so, so beautiful – more beautiful than he has any right to be.

“And, honestly? I’m pretty sure they are. Caught up, I mean,” he adds, lips quirking.

“You aren’t particularly subtle, detective.”

Sonny grins, meeting his eyes. Rafael is looking at him with warm eyes touched by a smile that’s trying to hide. His grin grows. “Maybe you’re a little _too_ subtle, counsellor.”

“Not what I would call subtle,” Olivia tosses in, earning an eyeroll from Rafael and another chuckle from Fin.

“I was trying a new tactic,” Rafael mutters, dry.

It’s dizzyingly pleasing, if Sonny’s being honest. Rafael, man, myth, and legend, with his acidic wit and desert-night humor, is interested in him. Of all the women who titter and cast heavy-lidded glances Rafael’s way just in the office, and all the men who will stand a touch too close and let their hands linger on his shoulders as they pass, Rafael has apparently chosen Sonny to romance in return. The rush of appealing to a man like Rafael, powerful and full of silver, has Sonny’s skin prickling with want even as he tries to ground himself.

Their food arrives soon after, and just like that things are back to normal. No lingering attention or awkward pauses. Amanda picks up a story about Sonny feeding the ducks with Jesse when Frannie had come up behind him to nose at his ass, shocking him so bad he almost fell into the lake. Sonny flushes all over and coughs into his arm, trying to stifle his laughter, still giddy with adrenalin and pent up energy. Rafael teases him, lips quirked, fingers still playing at his collar, and the flush only grows.

Everything is easy. Simple. It’s like nothing has shifted, but Sonny is stumbling to keep up, feeling practically jetlagged, as if he’s just experienced a monumental shift in the blink of the eye. He supposes it’s true, he has. A good one, but a shift nonetheless.

Other than the hand, Rafael is careful to keep space between himself and Sonny. It’s clear he realizes the shift has occurred and senses the struggle on some level. For that consideration, Sonny is thankful.

“Like the burger?” Sonny titters, watching as Rafael pulls away to cut his burger with his knife and fork. Rafael casts an unamused look his way, letting his gaze linger for just a moment longer, stressing his fabricated disdain, before taking a bite.

Sonny could swear Rafael mutters, “You’re lucky you’re cute.”

But that’s probably his imagination.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the wip for chap six is up on patreon
> 
> Thank you all for your kind words and support! Hope this bit was worth the wait.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on tumblr [@konigsberg](https://konigsberg.tumblr.com/)


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